LIMEHOUSE  NIGHTS 


THOMA$ 


ifornia 
>nal 

ty 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 

JIM  TULLY 

GIFT  OF 
MRS.  JIM  TULLY 


Limehouse  Nights 


jLime/tovse 


NEW  YORK 

ROBERT  M.  McBRIDE  &  COMPANY 
1919 


Copyright  by 
Robert  M.   McBride  &  Co. 


Second  Printing 

September,  19  if 

Third  Printing 

October,  iqif 

Fotirth  Printing 

November,  19  if 

Fifth  Printing 

March,  1918 

Sixth  Printing 

September,  1918 

Seventh  Printing 

March,  1919 
Eighth  Printing 

July,  1 9 1 9 

Ninth  Printing 

September,  1919 

Tenth  Printing 

October,  1919 


Published  August,   1917 


College 
Library 

Pft 

Io003 


817016 


Limebouse  Nights 


Contents 


Fag. 

The  Chink  and  the  Child .  •              g  113 

The  Father  of  Toto           .  •              (  •          39 

Grade  Goodnight*              .  ,               ,  •          57 

The  Paw             .             .  .             .  .         75 

7&r  C«*                .               •  »               •  .          97 

-5«y,  /Ar  Croucher  and  the  Rest  of  England  .        Ill 
The  Sign  of  the  Lamp     ....        133 

Tai  Fu  and  Pansy  Greers  »              «  .149 

Zfc  ^/W              .              .  .              ,  .169 

Gina  of  the  Chinatown     .  •              .  .187 

The  Knight-Errant            .  •               .  .231 

The  Gorilla  and  the  Girl  *              .  .       255 

Ding-Dong-Dell  .              .  .              .  .273 

Old  Joe .             .              .  ,              .  •       291 


II 


The  Chink  and  the  Child 


IT  is  a  tale  of  love  and  lovers  that  they 
tell  in  the  low-lit  Causeway  that  slinks 
from  West  India  Dock  Road  to  the 
dark  waste  of  waters  beyond.  In  Penny- 
fields,  too,  you  may  hear  it ;  and  I  do  not 
doubt  that  it  is  told  in  far-away  Tai-Ping,  in 
Singapore,  in  Tokio,  in  Shanghai,  and  those 
other  gay-lamped  haunts  of  wonder  whither 
the  wandering  people  of  Limehouse  go  and 
whence  they  return  so  casually.  It  is  a  tale 
for  tears,  and  should  you  hear  it  in  the  lilied 
tongue  of  the  yellow  men,  it  would  awaken 
in  you  all  your  pity.  In  our  bald  speech  it 
must,  unhappily,  lose  its  essential  fragrance, 
that  quality  that  will  lift  an  affair  of  squalor 
into  the  loftier  spheres  of  passion  and  im- 
agination, beauty  and  sorrow.  It  will  sound 
unconvincing,  a  little  .  .  .  you  know  .  .  . 
the  kind  of  thing  that  is  best  forgotten. 
Perhaps  .  .  . 

But  listen. 

It  is  Battling  Burrows,  the  lightning  welter- 
weight of  Shadwell,  the  box  o'  tricks,  the 
Tetrarch  of  the  ring,  who  enters  first. 
Battling  Burrows,  the  pride  of  Ratcliff, 
Poplar  and  Limehouse,  and  the  despair  of  his 
manager  and  backers.  For  he  loved  wine, 
woman  and  song  ;  and  the  boxing  world  held 

15 


Limehouse  Nights 


that  he  couldn't  last  long  on  that.  There 
was  any  amount  of  money  in  him  for  his  para- 
sites if  only  the  damned  women  could  be  cut 
out ;  but  again  and  again  would  he  disappear 
from  his  training  quarters  on  the  eve  of  a  big 
fight,  to  consort  with  Molly  and  Dolly,  and 
to  drink  other  things  than  barley-wrater  and 
lemon  -  juice.  Wherefore  Chuck  Lightfoot, 
his  manager,  forced  him  to  fight  on  any  and 
every  occasion  while  he  was  good  and  a 
money-maker ;  for  at  any  moment  the 
collapse  might  come,  and  Chuck  would  be 
called  upon  by  his  creditors  to  strip  off  that 
"  shirt  "  which  at  every  contest  he  laid  upon 
his  man. 

Battling  was  of  a  type  that  is  too  common 
in  the  eastern  districts  of  London ;  a  type 
that  upsets  all  accepted  classifications.  He 
wouldn't  be  classed.  He  was  a  curious 
mixture  of  athleticism  and  degeneracy.  He 
could  run  like  a  deer,  leap  like  a  greyhound, 
fight  like  a  machine,  and  drink  like  a  suction- 
hose.  He  was  a  bully  ;  he  had  the  courage 
of  the  high  hero.  He  was  an  open-air  sport ; 
he  had  the  vices  of  a  French  decadent. 

It  was  one  of  his  love  adventures  that 
properly  begins  this  tale;  for  the  girl  had 
come  to  Battling  one  night  with  a  recital  of 

16 


The  Chink  and  the  Child 

terrible  happenings,  of  an  angered  parent,  of 
a  slammed  door.  ...  In  her  arms  was  a 
bundle  of  white  rags.  Now  Battling,  like 
so  many  sensualists,  was  also  a  sentimentalist. 
He  took  that  bundle  of  white  rags ;  he  paid 
the  girl  money  to  get  into  the  country ;  and 
the  bundle  of  white  rags  had  existed  in  and 
about  his  domicile  in  Pekin  Street,  Lime- 
house,  for  some  eleven  years.  Her  position 
was  nondescript ;  to  the  casual  observer  it 
would  seem  that  she  was  Battling's  relief 
punch-ball — an  unpleasant  post  for  any 
human  creature  to  occupy,  especially  if  you 
are  a  little  girl  of  twelve,  and  the  place  be 
the  one-room  household  of  the  lightning 
welter-weight.  When  Battling  was  cross 
with  his  manager  .  .  .  well,  it  is  indefensible 
to  strike  your  manager  or  to  throw  chairs  at 
him,  if  he  is  a  good  manager ;  but  to  use  a 
dog-whip  on  a  small  child  is  permissible  and 
quite  as  satisfying ;  at  least,  he  found  it  so. 
On  these  occasions,  then,  when  very  cross 
with  his  sparring  partners,  or  over-flushed 
with  victory  and  juice  of  the  grape,  he  would 
flog  Lucy.  But  he  was  reputed  by  the  boys 
to  be  a  good  fellow.  He  only  whipped  the 
child  when  he  was  drunk ;  and  he  was  only 
drunk  for  eight  months  of  the  year. 

B  17 


Limehouse  Nights 


For  just  over  twelve  years  this  bruised 
little  body  had  crept  about  Poplar  and  Lime- 
house.  Always  the  white  face  was  scarred  with 
red,  or  black-furrowed  with  tears  ;  always  in 
her  steps  and  in  her  look  was  expectation 
of  dread  things.  Night  after  night  her 
sleep  was  broken  by  the  cheerful  Battling's 
brute  voice  and  violent  hands ;  and  terrible 
were  the  lessons  which  life  taught  her  in 
those  few  years.  Yet,  for  all  the  starved 
face  and  the  transfixed  air,  there  was  a  lurk- 
ing beauty  about  her,  a  something  that 
called  you  in  the  soft  curve  of  her  cheek 
that  cried  for  kisses  and  was  fed  with  blows, 
and  in  the  splendid  mournfulness  that  grew 
in  eyes  and  lips.  The  brown  hair  chimed 
against  the  pale  face,  like  the  rounding  of  a 
verse.  The  blue  cotton  frock  and  the  broken 
shoes  could  not  break  the  loveliness  of  her 
slender  figure  or  the  shy  grace  of  her  move- 
ments as  she  flitted  about  the  squalid  alleys 
of  the  docks ;  though  in  all  that  region  of 
wasted  life  and  toil  and  decay,  there  was  not 
one  that  noticed  her,  until  .  .  . 

Now  there  lived  in  Chinatown,  in  one  lousy 
room  over  Mr  Tai  Fu's  store  in  Pennyfields, 
a  wandering  yellow  man,  named  Cheng  Huan. 
Cheng  Huan  was  a  poet.  He  did  not  realise 

18 


The  Chink  and  the  Child 

it.  He  had  never  been  able  to  understand 
why  he  was  unpopular  ;  and  he  died  without 
knowing.  But  a  poet  he  was,  tinged  with 
the  materialism  of  his  race,  and  in  his  poor 
listening  heart  strange  echoes  would  awake  of 
which  he  himself  was  barely  conscious.  He 
regarded  things  differently  from  other  sailors  ; 
he  felt  things  more  passionately,  and  things 
which  they  felt  not  at  all ;  so  he  lived  alone 
instead  of  at  one  of  the  lodging-houses. 
Every  evening  he  would  sit  at  his  window 
and  watch  the  street.  Then,  a  little  later, 
he  would  take  a  jolt  of  opium  at  the  place 
at  the  corner  of  Formosa  Street. 

He  had  come  to  London  by  devious  ways. 
He  had  loafed  on  the  Bund  at  Shanghai.  The 
fateful  intervention  of  a  crimp  had  landed 
him  on  a  boat.  He  got  to  Cardiff,  and  so- 
journed in  its  Chinatown ;  thence  to  Liver- 
pool, to  Glasgow ;  thence,  by  a  ticket  from 
the  Asiatics'  Aid  Society,  to  Limehouse, 
where  he  remained  for  two  reasons — because 
it  cost  him  nothing  to  live  there,  and  because 
he  was  too  lazy  to  find  a  boat  to  take  him 
back  to  Shanghai. 

So  he  would  lounge  and  smoke  cheap 
cigarettes,  and  sit  at  his  window,  from  which 
point  he  had  many  times  observed  the  lyrical 


LimeJiouse  Nights 


Lucy.  He  noticed  her  casually.  Another 
day,  he  observed  her,  not  casually.  Later, 
he  looked  long  at  her ;  later  still,  he  began 
to  watch  for  her  and  for  that  strangely  pro- 
vocative something  about  the  toss  of  the 
head  and  the  hang  of  the  little  blue  skirt 
as  it  coyly  kissed  her  knee. 

Then  that  beauty  which  all  Limehouse  had 
missed  smote  Cheng.  Straight  to  his  heart 
it  went,  and  cried  itself  into  his  very  blood. 
Thereafter  the  spirit  of  poetry  broke  her 
blossoms  all  about  his  odorous  chamber. 
Nothing  was  the  same.  Pennyfields  became 
a  happy-lanterned  street,  and  the  monoton- 
ous fiddle  in  the  house  opposite  was  the  music 
of  his  fathers.  Bits  of  old  song  floated 
through  his  mind  :  little  sweet  verses  of  Le 
Tai-pih,  murmuring  of  plum  blossom,  rice- 
field  and  stream.  Day  by  day  he  would 
moon  at  his  window,  or  shuffle  about  the 
streets,  lighting  to  a  flame  when  Lucy  would 
pass  and  gravely  return  his  quiet  regard ; 
and  night  after  night,  too,  he  would  dream 
of  a  pale,  lily-lovely  child. 

And  now  the  Fates  moved  swiftly  various 
pieces  on  their  sinister  board,  and  all  that 
followed  happened  with  a  speed  and  precision 
that  showed  direction  from  higher  ways. 

20 


The  Chink  and  the  Child 

It  was  Wednesday  night  in  Limehouse,  and 
for  once  clear  of  mist.  Out  of  the  coloured 
darkness  of  the  Causeway  stole  the  muffled 
wail  of  reed  instruments,  and,  though  every 
window  was  closely  shuttered,  between  the 
joints  shot  jets  of  light  and  stealthy  voices, 
and  you  could  hear  the  whisper  of  slippered 
feet,  and  the  stuttering  steps  of  the  satyr 
and  the  sadist.  It  was  to  the  cafe*  in  the 
middle  of  the  Causeway,  lit  by  the  pallid  blue 
light  that  is  the  symbol  of  China  throughout 
the  world,  that  Cheng  Huan  came,  to  take  a 
dish  of  noodle  and  some  tea.  Thence  he 
moved  to  another  house  whose  stairs  ran 
straight  to  the  street,  and  above  whose  door- 
way a  lamp  glowed  like  an  evil  eye.  At  this 
establishment  he  mostly  took  his  pipe  of 
"  chandu  "  and  a  brief  chat  with  the  keeper 
of  the  house,  for,  although  not  popular,  and 
very  silent,  he  liked  sometimes  to  be  in  the 
presence  of  his  compatriots.  Like  a  figure 
of  a  shadowgraph  he  slid  through  the  door 
and  up  the  stairs. 

The  chamber  he  entered  was  a  bit  of  the 
Orient  squatting  at  the  portals  of  the  West. 
It  was  a  well-kept  place  where  one  might 
play  a  game  of  fan-tan,  or  take  a  shot  or  so  of 
li-un,  or  purchase  other  varieties  of  Oriental 

21 


Limehouse  Nights 


delight.  It  was  sunk  in  a  purple  dusk, 
though  here  and  there  a  lantern  stung  the 
glooms.  Low  couches  lay  around  the  walls, 
and  strange  men  decorated  them  :  Chinese, 
Japs,  Malays,  Lascars,  with  one  or  two 
white  girls ;  and  sleek,  noiseless  attendants 
swam  from  couch  to  couch.  Away  in  the 
far  corner  sprawled  a  lank  figure  in  brown 
shirting,  its  nerveless  fingers  curled  about 
the  stem  of  a  spent  pipe.  On  one  of  the 
lounges  a  scorbutic  nigger  sat  with  a  Jewess 
from  Shadwell.  Squatting  on  a  table  in 
the  centre,  beneath  one  of  the  lanterns,  was 
a  musician  with  a  reed,  blinking  upon  the 
company  like  a  sly  cat,  and  making  his 
melody  of  six  repeated  notes. 

The  atmosphere  churned.  The  dirt  of 
years,  tobacco  of  many  growings,  opium, 
betel  nut,  and  moist  flesh  allied  themselves 
in  one  grand  assault  against  the  nostrils. 

As  Cheng  brooded  on  his  insect-ridden 
cushion,  of  a  sudden  the  lantern  above  the 
musician  was  caught  by  the  ribbon  of  his 
reed.  It  danced  and  flung  a  hazy  radiance 
on  a  divan  in  the  shadow.  He  saw — started 
— half  rose.  His  heart  galloped,  and  the 
blood  pounded  in  his  quiet  veins.  Then  he 
dropped  again,  crouched,  and  stared. 

22 


The  Chink  and  the  Child 

O  lily  -  flowers  and  plum  blossoms !  O 
silver  streams  and  dim-starred  skies  I  O 
wine  and  roses,  song  and  laughter !  For 
there,  kneeling  on  a  mass  of  rugs,  mazed  and 
big-eyed,  but  understanding,  was  Lucy  .  .  . 
his  Lucy  ...  his  little  maid.  Through  the 
dusk  she  must  have  felt  his  intent  gaze  upon 
her ;  for  he  crouched  there,  fascinated,  staring 
into  the  now  obscured  corner  where  she  knelt. 

But  the  sickness  which  momentarily 
gripped  him  on  finding  in  this  place  his  snowy- 
breasted  pearl  passed  and  gave  place  to  great 
joy.  She  was  here  ;  he  would  talk  with  her. 
Little  English  he  had,  but  simple  words,  those 
with  few  gutturals,  he  had  managed  to  pick 
up ;  so  he  rose,  the  masterful  lover,  and, 
with  feline  movements,  crossed  the  nightmare 
chamber  to  claim  his  own. 

If  you  wonder  how  Lucy  came  to  be  in  this 
bagnio,  the  explanation  is  simple.  Battling 
was  in  training.  He  had  flogged  her  that 
day  before  starting  wrork ;  he  had  then  had  a 
few  brandies — not  many  ;  some  eighteen  or 
nineteen — and  had  locked  the  door  of  his 
room  and  taken  the  key.  Lucy  was,  there- 
fore, homeless,  and  a  girl  somewhat  older  than 
Lucy,  so  old  and  so  wise,  as  girls  are  in  that 
region,  saw  in  her  a  possible  source  of  revenue. 


Limehouse  Nights 


So  there  they  were,  and  to   them  appeared 
Cheng. 

From  what  horrors  he  saved  her  that  night 
cannot  be  told,  for  her  ways  were  too  auda- 
ciously childish  to  hold  her  long  from  harm 
in  such  a  place.  What  he  brought  to  her 
was  love  and  death. 

For  he  sat  by  her.  He  looked  at  her — 
reverently  yet  passionately.  He  touched  her 
— wistfully  yet  eagerly.  He  locked  a  finger 
in  her  wondrous  hair.  She  did  not  start 
away  ;  she  did  not  tremble.  She  knew  well 
what  she  had  to  be  afraid  of  in  that  place ; 
but  she  was  not  afraid  of  Cheng.  She  pierced 
the  mephitic  gloom  and  scanned  his  face. 
No,  she  was  not  afraid.  His  yellow  hands, 
his  yellow  face,  his  smooth  black  hair  .  .  . 
well,  he  was  the  first  thing  that  had  ever 
spoken  soft  words  to  her  ;  the  first  thing  that 
had  ever  laid  a  hand  upon  her  that  was  not 
brutal ;  the  first  thing  that  had  deferred  in 
manner  towards  her  as  though  she,  too,  had 
a  right  to  live.  She  knew  his  words  were 
sweet,  though  she  did  not  understand  them. 
Nor  can  they  be  set  down.  Half  that  he 
spoke  was  in  village  Chinese ;  the  rest  in  a 
mangling  of  English  which  no  distorted 
spelling  could  possibly  reproduce. 

24 


The  Chink  and  the  Child 

But  he  drew  her  back  against  the  cushions 
and  asked  her  name,  and  she  told  him ;  and 
he  inquired  her  age,  and  she  told  him ;  and 
he  had  then  two  beautiful  words  which  came 
easily  to  his  tongue.  He  repeated  them 
again  and  again  : 

"  Lucia  .  .  .  li'l  Lucia.  .  .  .  Twelve. 
.  .  .  Twelve."  Musical  phrases  they  were, 
dropping  from  his  lips,  and  to  the  child  who 
heard  her  name  pronounced  so  lovingly,  they 
were  the  lost  heights  of  melody.  She  clung 
to  him,  and  he  to  her.  She  held  his  strong 
arm  in  both  of  hers  as  they  crouched  on  the 
divan,  and  nestled  her  cheek  against  his 
coat. 

Well  ...  he  took  her  home  to  his  wretched 
room. 

"  Li'l  Lucia,  come-a-home  .  .  .  Lucia." 

His  heart  was  on  fire.  As  they  slipped  out 
of  the  noisomeness  into  the  night  air  and 
crossed  the  West  India  Dock  Road  into 
Pennyfields,  they  passed  unnoticed.  It  was 
late,  for  one  thing,  and  for  another  .  .  . 
well,  nobody  cared  particularly.  His  blood 
rang  with  soft  music  and  the  solemnity  of 
drums,  for  surely  he  had  found  now  what  for 
many  years  he  had  sought — his  world's  one 
flower.  Wanderer  he  was,  from  Tuan-tsen 

25 


Limehouse  Nights 


to  Shanghai,  Shanghai  to  Glasgow  .  .  . 
Cardiff  .  .  .  Liverpool  .  .  .  London.  He 
had  dreamed  often  of  the  women  of  his  native 
land ;  perchance  one  of  them  should  be  his 
flower.  Women,  indeed,  there  had  been. 
Swatow  ...  he  had  recollections  of  certain 
rose- winged  hours  in  coast  cities.  At  many 
places  to  which  chance  had  led  him  a  little 
bird  had  perched  itself  upon  his  heart,  but 
so  lightly  and  for  so  brief  a  while  as  hardly 
to  be  felt.  But  now — now  he  had  found  her 
in  this  alabaster  Cockney  child.  So  that  he 
was  glad  and  had  great  joy  of  himself  and  the 
blue  and  silver  night,  and  the  harsh  flares 
of  the  Poplar  Hippodrome. 

You  will  observe  that  he  had  claimed  her, 
but  had  not  asked  himself  whether  she  were 
of  an  age  for  love.  The  white  perfection  of 
the  child  had  captivated  every  sense.  It  may 
be  that  he  forgot  that  he  was  in  London  and 
not  in  Tuan-tsen.  It  may  be  that  he  did  not 
care.  Of  that  nothing  can  be  told.  Ail  that 
is  known  is  that  his  love  was  a  pure  and  holy 
thing.  Of  that  we  may  be  sure,  for  his  worst 
enemies  have  said  it. 

Slowly,  softly  they  mounted  the  stairs 
to  his  room,  and  with  almost  an  obeisance  he 
entered  and  drew  her  in.  A  bank  of  cloud 


The  Chink  and  the  Child 

raced  to  the  east  and  a  full  moon  thrust  a 
sharp  sword  of  light  upon  them.  Silence  lay 
over  all  Pennyfields.  With  a  bird-like  move- 
ment, she  looked  up  at  him — her  face  alight, 
her  tiny  hands  upon  his  coat — clinging, 
wondering,  trusting.  He  took  her  hand  and 
kissed  it ;  repeated  the  kiss  upon  her  cheek 
and  lip  and  little  bosom,  twining  his  fingers 
in  her  hair.  Docilely,  and  echoing  the  smile 
of  his  lemon  lips  in  a  way  that  thrilled  him 
almost  to  laughter,  she  returned  his  kisses 
impetuously,  gladly. 

He  clasped  the  nestling  to  him.  Bruised, 
tearful,  with  the  love  of  life  almost  thrashed 
out  of  her,  she  had  fluttered  to  him  out  of  the 
evil  night. 

"  O  li'l  Lucia  !  "  And  he  put  soft  hands 
upon  her,  and  smoothed  her  and  crooned 
over  her  many  gracious  things  in  his  flowered 
speech.  So  they  stood  in  the  moonlight, 
while  she  told  him  the  story  of  her  father, 
of  her  beatings,  and  starvings,  and  un- 
happiness. 

"  O  li'l  Lucia.  .  .  .  White  Blossom.  ... 
Twelve.  .  .  .  Twelve  years  old  !  " 

As  he  spoke,  the  clock  above  the  Milwall 
Docks  shot  twelve  crashing  notes  across  the 
night.  When  the  last  echo  died,  he  moved 

27 


Limehouse  Nights 


to  a  cupboard,  and  from  it  he  drew  strange 
things  .  .  .  formless  masses  of  blue  and  gold, 
magical  things  of  silk,  and  a  vessel  that  was 
surely  Aladdin's  lamp,  and  a  box  of  spices. 
He  took  these  robes,  and,  with  tender, 
reverent  fingers,  removed  from  his  White 
Blossom  the  besmirched  rags  that  covered 
her,  and  robed  her  again,  and  led  her  then 
to  the  heap  of  stuff  that  was  his  bed,  and 
bestowed  her  safely. 

For  himself,  he  squatted  on  the  floor  before 
her,  holding  one  grubby  little  hand.  There 
he  crouched  all  night,  under  the  lyric  moon, 
sleepless,  watchful ;  and  sweet  content  was 
his.  He  had  fallen  into  an  uncomfortable 
posture,  and  his  muscles  ached  intolerably. 
But  she  slept,  and  he  dared  not  move  nor 
release  her  hand  lest  he  should  awaken  her. 
Weary  and  trustful,  she  slept,  knowing 
that  the  yellow  man  was  kind  and  that 
she  might  sleep  with  no  fear  of  a  steel 
hand  smashing  the  delicate  structure  of  her 
dreams. 

In  the  morning,  when  she  awoke,  still 
wearing  her  blue  and  yellow  silk,  she  gave  a 
cry  of  amazement.  Cheng  had  been  about. 
Many  times  had  he  glided  up  and  down  the 
two  flights  of  stairs,  and  now  at  last  his  room 

28 


The  Chink  and  the  Child 

was  prepared  for  his  princess.  It  was  swept 
and  garnished,  and  was  an  apartment  worthy 
a  maid  who  is  loved  by  a  poet-prince.  There 
was  a  bead  curtain.  There  were  muslins  of 
pink  and  white.  There  were  four  bowls  of 
flowers,  clean,  clear  flowers  to  gladden  the 
White  Blossom  and  set  off  her  sharp  beauty. 
And  there  was  a  bowl  of  water,  and  a  sweet 
lotion  for  the  bruise  on  her  cheek. 

When  she  had  risen,  her  prince  ministered 
to  her  with  rice  and  egg  and  tea.  Cleansed 
and  robed  and  calm,  she  sat  before  him, 
perched  on  the  edge  of  many  cushions  as 
on  a  throne,  with  all  the  grace  of  the  child 
princess  in  the  story.  She  was  a  poem.  The 
beauty  hidden  by  neglect  and  fatigue  shone 
out  now  more  clearly  and  vividly,  and  from 
the  head  sunning  over  with  curls  to  the  small 
white  feet,  now  bathed  and  sandalled,  she 
seemed  the  living  interpretation  of  a  Chinese 
lyric.  And  she  was  his ;  her  sweet  self  and 
her  prattle,  and  her  birdlike  ways  were  all 
his  own. 

Oh,  beautifully  they  loved.  For  two  days 
he  held  her.  Soft  caresses  from  his  yellow 
hands  and  long,  devout  kisses  were  all  their 
demonstration.  Each  night  he  would  tend 
her,  as  might  mother  to  child ;  and  each  night 

29 


Limehouse  Nights 


he  watched  and  sometimes  slumbered  at  the 
foot  of  her  couch. 

But  now  there  were  those  that  ran  to 
Battling  at  his  training  quarters  across  the 
river,  with  the  news  that  his  child  had  gone 
with  a  Chink — a  yellow  man.  And  Battling 
was  angry.  He  discovered  parental  rights. 
He  discovered  indignation.  A  yellow  man 
after  his  kid !  He'd  learn  him.  Battling 
did  not  like  men  who  were  not  born  in  the 
same  great  country  as  himself.  Particularly 
he  disliked  yellow  men.  His  birth  and  educa- 
tion in  Shadwell  had  taught  him  that  of  all 
creeping  things  that  creep  upon  the  earth  the 
most  insidious  is  the  Oriental  in  the  West. 
And  a  yellow  man  and  a  child.  It  was  .  .  . 
as  you  might  say  ...  so  ...  kind  of  ... 
well,  wasn't  it  ?  He  bellowed  that  it  was 
"  unnacherel."  The  yeller  man  would  go 
through  it.  Yeller !  It  was  his  supreme 
condemnation,  his  final  epithet  for  all  conduct 
of  which  he  disapproved. 

There  was  no  doubt  that  he  was  extremely 
annoyed.  He  went  to  the  Blue  Lantern, 
in  what  was  once  Ratcliff  Highway,  and 
thumped  the  bar,  and  made  all  his  world  agree 
with  him.  And  when  they  agreed  with  him 
he  got  angrier  still.  So  that  when,  a  few 


The  Chink  and  the  Child 

hours  later,  he  climbed  through  the  ropes  at 
the  Netherlands  to  meet  Bud  Tuffit  for  ten 
rounds,  it  was  Bud's  fight  all  the  time,  and 
to  that  bright  boy's  astonishment  he  was  the 
victor  on  points  at  the  end  of  the  ten.  Bat- 
tling slouched  out  of  the  ring,  still  more 
determined  to  let  the  Chink  have  it  where 
the  chicken  had  the  axe.  He  left  the  house 
with  two  pals  and  a  black  man,  and  a  number 
of  really  inspired  curses  from  his  manager. 

On  the  evening  of  the  third  day,  then, 
Cheng  slipped  sleepily  down  the  stairs  to  pro- 
cure more  flowers  and  more  rice.  The  genial 
Ho  Ling,  who  keeps  the  Canton  store,  held 
him  in  talk  some  little  while,  and  he  was  gone 
from  his  room  perhaps  half-an-hour.  Then 
he  glided  back,  and  climbed  with  happy  feet 
the  forty  stairs  to  his  temple  of  wonder. 

With  a  push  of  a  finger  he  opened  the  door, 
and  the  blood  froze  on  his  cheek,  the  flowers 
fell  from  him.  The  temple  was  empty  and 
desolate ;  White  Blossom  was  gone.  The 
muslin  hangings  were  torn  down  and  trampled 
underfoot.  The  flowers  had  been  flung  from 
their  bowls  about  the  floor,  and  the  bowls  lay 
in  fifty  fragments.  The  joss  was  smashed. 
The  cupboard  had  been  opened.  Rice  was 
scattered  here  and  there.  The  little  straight 


Limehouse  Nights 


bed  had  been  jumped  upon  by  brute  feet. 
Everything  that  could  be  smashed  or  violated 
had  been  so  treated,  and — horror  of  all — the 
blue  and  yellow  silk  robe  had  been  rent  in 
pieces,  tied  in  grotesque  knots,  and  slung 
derisively  about  the  table  legs. 

I  pray  devoutly  that  you  may  never  suffer 
what  Cheng  Huan  suffered  in  that  moment. 
The  pangs  of  death,  with  no  dying  ;  the  sick- 
ness of  the  soul  which  longs  to  escape  and 
cannot ;  the  imprisoned  animal  within  the 
breast  which  struggles  madly  for  a  voice  and 
finds  none  ;  all  the  agonies  of  all  the  ages — 
the  agonies  of  every  abandoned  lover  and 
lost  woman,  past  and  to  come — all  these 
things  were  his  in  that  moment. 

Then  he  found  voice  and  gave  a  great  cry, 
and  men  from  below  came  up  to  him ;  and 
they  told  him  how  the  man  who  boxed  had 
been  there  with  a  black  man ;  how  he  had 
torn  the  robes  from  his  child,  and  dragged 
her  down  the  stairs  by  her  hair ;  and  how 
he  had  shouted  aloud  for  Cheng  and  had 
vowed  to  return  and  deal  separately  with 
him. 

Now  a  terrible  dignity  came  to  Cheng,  and 
the  soul  of  his  great  fathers  swept  over  him. 
He  closed  the  door  against  them,  and  fell 

32 


The  Chink  and  the  Child 

prostrate  over  what  had  been  the  resting- 
place  of  White  Blossom.  Those  without 
heard  strange  sounds  as  of  an  animal  in  its 
last  pains  ;  and  it  was  even  so.  Cheng  was 
dying.  The  sacrament  of  his  high  and  holy 
passion  had  been  profaned ;  the  last  sanc- 
tuary of  the  Oriental — his  soul  dignity — had 
been  assaulted.  The  love  robes  had  been 
torn  to  ribbons;  the  veil  of  his  temple  cut 
down.  Life  was  no  longer  possible ;  and 
life  without  his  little  lady,  his  White  Blossom, 
was  no  longer  desirable. 

Prostrate  he  lay  for  the  space  of  some  five 
minutes.  Then,  in  his  face  all  the  pride  of 
accepted  destiny,  he  arose.  He  drew  to- 
gether the  little  bed.  With  reverent  hands 
he  took  the  pieces  of  blue  and  yellow  silk, 
kissing  them  and  fondling  them  and  placing 
them  about  the  pillow.  Silently  he  gathered 
up  the  flowers,  and  the  broken  earthenware, 
and  burnt  some  prayer  papers  and  prepared 
himself  for  death. 

Now  it  is  the  custom  among  those  of  the 
sect  of  Cheng  that  the  dying  shall  present 
love-gifts  to  their  enemies  ;  and  when  he  had 
set  all  in  order,  he  gathered  his  brown  canvas 
coat  about  him,  stole  from  the  house,  and 
set  out  to  find  Battling  Burrows,  bearing 
c  33 


Limtkouse  Nights 


under  the  coat  his  love-gitt  to  Battling. 
White  Blossom  he  had  no  hope  of  finding. 
He  had  heard  of  Burrows  many  times  ;  and 
he  judged  that,  now  that  she  was  taken  from 
him,  never  again  would  he  hold  those  hands 
or  touch  that  laughing  hair.  Nor,  if  he  did, 
could  it  change  things  from  what  they  were. 
Nothing  that  was  not  a  dog  could  live  in  the 
face  of  this  sacrilege. 

As  he  came  before  the  house  in  Pekin 
Street,  where  Battling  lived,  he  murmured 
gracious  prayers.  Fortunately,  it  was  a 
night  of  thick  river  mist,  and  through  the 
enveloping  velvet  none  could  observe  or 
challenge  him.  The  main  door  was  open,  as 
are  all  doors  in  this  district.  He  writhed 
across  the  step,  and  through  to  the  back  room, 
where  again  the  door  yielded  to  a  touch. 

Darkness.  Darkness  and  silence,  and  a 
sense  of  frightful  things.  He  peered  through 
it.  Then  he  fumbled  under  his  jacket — 
found  a  match — struck  it.  An  inch  of  candle 
stood  on  the  mantelshelf.  He  lit  it.  He 
looked  round.  No  sign  of  Burrows,  but  .  .  . 
Almost  before  he  looked  he  knew  what 
awaited  him.  .  But  the  sense  of  finality  had 
kindly  stunned  him  ;  he  could  suffer  nothing 
more. 

34 


The  Chink  and  the  Child 

On  the  table  lay  a  dog-whip.  In  the 
corner  a  belt  had  been  flung.  Half  across 
the  greasy  couch  lay  White  Blossom.  A  few 
rags  of  clothing  were  about  her  pale,  slim 
body  ;  her  hair  hung  limp  as  her  limbs  ;  her 
eyes  were  closed.  As  Cheng  drew  nearer 
and  saw  the  savage  red  rails  that  ran  across 
and  across  the  beloved  body,  he  could  not 
scream — he  could  not  think.  He  dropped 
beside  the  couch.  He  laid  gentle  hands 
upon  her,  and  called  soft  names.  She  was 
warm  to  the  touch.  The  pulse  was  still. 

Softly,  oh,  so  softly,  he  bent  over  the  little 
frame  that  had  enclosed  his  friend-spirit,  and 
his  light  kisses  fell  all  about  her.  Then, 
with  the  undirected  movements  of  a  sleep- 
walker, he  bestowed  the  rags  decently  about 
her,  clasped  her  in  strong  arms,  and  crept 
silently  into  the  night. 

From  Pekin  Street  to  Pennyfields  it  is  but 
a  turn  or  two,  and  again  he  passed  un- 
observed as  he  bore  his  tired  bird  back  to  her 
nest.  He  laid  her  upon  the  bed,  and  covered 
the  lily  limbs  with  the  blue  and  yellow  silks 
and  strewed  upon  her  a  few  of  the  trampled 
flowers.  Then,  with  more  kisses  and  prayers, 
he  crouched  beside  her. 

So,  in  the  ghastly  Limehouse  morning, 
35 


Ltimehouse  Nights 


they  were  found — the  dead  child,  and  the 
Chink,  kneeling  beside  her,  with  a  sharp  knife 
gripped  in  a  vice-like  hand,  its  blade  far 
between  his  ribs. 

Meantime,  having  vented  his  wrath  on  his 
prodigal  daughter,  Battling,  still  cross,  had 
returned  to  the  Blue  Lantern,  and  there  he 
stayed  with  a  brandy  tumbler  in  his  fist, 
forgetful  of  an  appointment  at  Premierland, 
whereby  he  should  have  been  in  the  ring  at 
ten  o'clock  sharp.  For  the  space  of  an  hour 
Chuck  Lightfoot  was  going  blasphemously  to 
and  fro  in  Poplar,  seeking  Battling  and  not 
finding  him,  and  murmuring,  in  tearful  tones  : 
"  Battling — you  dammanblasted  Battling — 
where  are  yeh  ?  ' 

His  opponent  was  in  his  corner  sure  enough, 
but  there  was  no  fight.  For  Battling  lurched 
from  the  Blue  Lantern  to  Pekin  Street.  He 
lurched  into  his  happy  home,  and  he  cursed 
Lucy,  and  called  for  her.  And  finding  no 
matches,  he  lurched  to  where  he  knew  the 
couch  should  be,  and  flopped  heavily  down. 

Now  it  is  a  peculiarity  of  the  reptile  tribe 
that  its  members  are  impatient  of  being 
flopped  on  without  warning.  So,  when 
Battling  flopped,  eighteen  inches  of  writhing 
gristle  upreared  itself  on  the  couch,  and  got 

36 


The  Chink  and  the  Child 

home  on  him  as  Bud  Tuffit  had  done  the  night 
before— one  to  the  ear,  one  to  the  throat,  and 
another  to  the  forearm. 

Battling  went  down  and  out. 

And  he,  too,  was  found  in  the  morning, 
with  Cheng  Huan's  love-gift  coiled  about  his 
nock. 


The  Father  of  Yoto 


SWEET  human  hearts — a  tale  of  car- 
nival,   moon-haunted   nights  :    a   tale 
of  the  spring- tide,  of  the  flower  and 
the  leaf  ripening  to  fruit  :   a  gossamer  thing 
of    dreamy- lanterned    streets,    told    by    my 
friend,  Tai  Ling,  of  West  India  Dock  Road. 
Its  scene  is  not  the  Hoang  Ho  or  the  sun- 
loved  islands  of  the  East,  but  Limehouse. 
Nevertheless  it  is  a  fairy  tale,  because  so 
human. 

Marigold  Vassiloff  was  a  glorious  girl.  The 
epithet  is  not  mine,  but  Tai  Ling's.  Marigold 
lived  under  the  tremendous  glooms  of  the 
East  and  West  India  Docks ;  and  what  she 
didn't  know  about  the  more  universal  aspects 
of  human  life,  though  she  was  yet  short  of 
twenty,  was  hardly  to  be  known.  You  know, 
perhaps,  the  East  India  Dock,  which  lies  a 
little  north  of  its  big  brother,  the  West  India 
Dock  :  a  place  of  savagely  masculine  char- 
acter, evoking  the  brassy  mood.  By  day- 
time a  cold,  nauseous  light  hangs  about  it; 
at  night  a  devilish  darkness  settles  upon  it. 
You  know,  perhaps,  the  fried-fish  shops 
that  punctuate  every  corner  in  the  surround- 
ing maze  of  streets,  the  "  general  "  shops  with 
their  assorted  rags,  their  broken  iron,  and 
their  glum-faced  basins  of  kitchen  waste; 


LimehouseN  ights 


and  the  lurid-seeming  creatures  that  glide 
from  nowhere  into  nothing — Arab,  Lascar, 
Pacific  Islander,  Chinky,  Hindoo,  and  so  on, 
each  carrying  his  own  perfume.  You  know, 
too,  the  streets  of  plunging  hoof  and  horn  that 
cross  and  re-cross  the  waterways,  the  gaunt 
chimneys  that  stick  their  derisive  tongues 
to  the  skies.  You  know  the  cobbly  courts, 
the  bestrewn  alleys,  through  which  at  night 
gas-jets  asthmatically  splutter ;  and  the 
mephitic  glooms  and  silences  of  the  dock-side. 
You  know  these  things,  and  I  need  not 
attempt  to  illuminate  them  for  you. 

But  you  do  not  know  that  in  this  place 
there  are  creatures  with  the  lust  for  life 
racing  in  their  veins ;  creatures  hot  for  the 
moment  and  its  carnival ;  children  of  delicate 
graces ;  young  hearts  asking  only  that  they 
may  be  happy  for  their  hour.  You  do  not 
know  that  there  are  girls  on  these  raw  edges 
of  London  to  whom  silks  and  wine  and  song 
are  things  to  be  desired  but  never  experienced. 
Neither  do  you  know  that  one  of  these 
creatures,  my  Marigold,  was  the  heroine  of 
one  of  the  most  fantastic  adventures  of  which 
I  have  heard. 

It  may  offend  your  taste,  and  in  that  case 
you  may  reject  it.  Yet  I  trust  you  will 

4* 


The  Father  of  Yoto 


agree  that  any  young  thing,  moving  in  that 
dank  daylight,  that  devilish  darkness,  is  fully 
justified  in  taking  her  moments  of  gaiety  as 
and  when  she  may.  There  may  be  callow 
minds  that  cry  No ;  and  for  them  I  have 
no  answer.  There  are  minds  to  which  the 
repulsive — such  as  Poplar  High  Street — is 
supremely  beautiful,  and  to  whom  anything 
frankly  human  is  indelicate,  if  not  ugly.  You 
need,  however,  to  be  a  futurist  to  discover 
epstatic  beauty  in  the  torn  wastes  of  tiles, 
the  groupings  of  iron  and  stone,  and  the  night- 
mare of  chimney-stacks  and  gas-works. 
Barking  Road,  as  it  dips  and  rises  with  a 
sweep  as  lovely  as  a  flying  bird's,  may  be  a 
thing  to  fire  the  trained  imagination,  and  so 
may  be  the  subtle  tones  of  flame  and  shade 
in  the  byways,  and  the  airy  tracery  of  the 
Great  Eastern  Railway  arches.  But  these 
crazy  things  touch  only  those  who  do  not  live 
among  them  :  who  comfortably  wake  and 
sleep  and  eat  in  Hampstead  and  Streatham. 
The  beauty  which  neither  time  nor  tears  can 
fade  is  hardly  to  be  come  by  east  of  Aldgate 
Pump  ;  if  you  look  for  it  there  and  think  that 
you  find  it,  I  may  tell  you  that  you  are  a 
poseur ;  you  may  take  your  seat  at  a  St 
John's  Wood  breakfast-table,  and  stay  there. 

43 


Limchouse  Nights 


Marigold  was  not  a  futurist.  She  was  an 
apple-cheeked  girl,  lovely  and  brave  and 
bright.  The  Pool  at  night  never  shook  her 
to  wonder.  Mast-head,  smoke-stack,  creak- 
ing crane,  and  the  perfect  chiming  of  the  over- 
lying purples  evoked  nothing  responsive  in 
her.  If  she  desired  beauty  at  all,  it  was  the 
beauty  of  the  chocolate  box  or  the  biscuit 
tin.  Wherefore  Poplar  and  Limehouse  were 
a  weariness  to  her.  She  was  a  malcontent ; 
and  one  can  hardly  blame  her,  for  she  was  a 
girl  of  girls.  When  she  dreamed  of  happier 
things,  which  she  did  many  times  a  week,  and 
could  not  get  them,  she  took  the  next  best 
thing.  A  sound  philosophy,  you  will  agree. 
She  flogged  a  jaded  heart  in  the  loud  music 
hall,  the  saloons  of  the  dock-side,  and  found 
some  minutes'  respite  from  the  eternal  grief 
of  things  in  the  arms  of  any  salt-browned 
man  who  caught  her  fancy. 

Tai  Ling  was  right.  She  was  a  moon- 
blossom.  Impossible  to  imagine  what  she 
might  have  been  in  gentler  surroundings. 
As  it  was  she  was  too  cruelly  beautiful  for 
human  nature's  daily  food.  Her  face  had  not 
the  pure  and  perfect  beauty  such  as  you  may 
find  in  the  well-kept  inmates  of  an  Ealing 
High  School.  But  above  that  face  was  a 

44 


The  Father  of  Yoto 


crown  of  thunderous  hair,  shot  with  an  elfish 
sheen,  which  burned  the  heart  out  of  any 
man  creature  who  spotted  her.  She  was 
small,  but  ripe-breasted,  and  moved  like  a 
cat.  The  very  lines  of  her  limbs  were  an 
ecstasy,  and  she  had,  too,  an  odd,  wide  laugh 
— and  knew  how  to  use  it. 

Now  it  happened  one  night,  when  her  head 
was  tangled  in  a  net  of  dreams,  that  she 
sought  escape  in  the  Causeway,  in  the  little 
white  caf£  where  you  may  take  noodle,  chop 
suey,  China  tea,  and  other  exotic  foods. 
She  was  the  only  white  thing  there.  Yellow 
men  and  brown  were  there,  and  one  tan- 
skinned  woman,  but  Marigold  was  the  only 
pure  product  of  these  islands.  At  a  far 
table,  behind  the  bead  curtain  in  the  corner, 
sat  Tai  Ling.  He  saw  her,  and  lit  to  a  sudden 
delight  of  her. 

Tai  Ling  was  a  queer  bird.  Not  immoral, 
for,  to  be  immoral,  you  must  first  subscribe 
to  some  conventional  morality.  Tai  Ling  did 
not.  You  cannot  do  wrong  until  you  have 
first  done  right.  Tai  Ling  had  not.  He  was 
just  non-moral ;  and  right  and  wrong  were 
words  he  did  not  understand.  He  was  in 
love  with  life,  and  song,  and  wine,  and 
warmth,  and  the  beauty  of  little  girls.  The 

45 


Limehouse  Nights 


world  to  him!  as  to  Marigold,  was  a  pause  on 
a  journey,  where  one  might  take  one's  idle 
pleasure,  while  others  strewed  the  path  with 
mirth  and  roses.  He  knew  only  two  divisions 
of  people — the  gay  and  the  stupid.  The 
problems  of  this  life  and  the  next  passed  him 
by.  He  never  turned  aside  from  pleasure, 
or  resisted  an  invitation  to  the  feast. 

In  fact,  by  our  standards,  a  complete 
rogue ;  yet  the  most  joyous  I  have  known. 
I  never  knew  a  man  with  so  seductive  a  smile. 
It  has  driven  the  virtuously  indignant  heart 
out  of  me  many  a  time,  and  I  never  knew  a 
girl,  white  or  coloured,  who  could  withstand 
it.  I  almost  believe  it  would  have  beaten 
down  the  frigid  steel  ramparts  that  begird  the 
English  "  lady."  It  thrilled  and  tickled  you 
as  does  the  gayest  music  of  Mozart.  It  had 
not  the  mere  lightness  of  frivolity,  but,  like 
that  music,  it  had  the  deep-plumbing  gaiety 
of  the  love  of  life,  for  joy  and  sorrow. 

The  moment  Tai  Ling  caught  Marigold's 
eye,  the  heart  in  him  sprang  like  a  bird  to 
song,  and  he  began  to  smile.  I  say  began,  for 
an  Oriental  smile  is  not  an  affair  of  a  swift 
moment.  It  has  a  birth  and  a  beginning. 
It  awakes — hesitates — grows,  and  at  last 
from  the  sad  chrysalis  emerges  the  butterfly. 

46 


The  Father  of  Yoto 


A  Chinese  smile  at  the  full  is  one  of  the 
subtlest  expressions  of  which  the  human  face 
is  capable. 

The  mischief  was  done.  Marigold  went 
down  before  that  smile  without  even  putting 
up  her  guard.  Swift  on  the  uptake,  she 
tossed  it  back  to  him,  and  her  maddening 
laugh  ran  across  the  room.  Tai  Ling  waited 
until  she  drew  out  a  frowsy  packet  of  cigar- 
ettes ;  then  back  to  her  he  carried  the 
laugh,  and  slipped  a  lighted  match  over  her 
shoulder  almost  before  the  cigarette  was  at 
her  mouth. 

It  was  aptly  done.  He  sat  down  beside  her, 
and  took  graceful  charge  of  her  hand,  while 
he  encircled  her  waist.  He  had  been  flying 
to  and  fro  long  enough  on  P.  &  O.  boats  to 
have  picked  up,  during  his  London  sojourns, 
a  fair  Cockney  vocabulary,  which  he  used 
with  a  liquid  accent ;  and  he  began  talk  with 
her,  in  honey -flavoured  phrases,  of  Swatow, 
of  Yokohama,  Fuji  Yama,  Sarawak ;  of 
flowered  islands,  white  towns  and  green 
bays,  and  sunlight  like  wine,  and  .  .  .  oh,  a 
thousand  things  that  the  little  cloudy  head 
spun  at  hearing. 

They  had  more  tea  and  cigarettes,  and  he 
bought  a  scented  spice  for  her,  and  they  left 

47 


Limehouse  Nights 

the  cafe  together,  at  about  midnight,  very 
glad. 

When  Marigold  gave  herself  to  Tai  Ling, 
as  I  have  explained  in  that  row  of  dots,  she 
did  so  because  she  was  happy,  and  because 
Tai  Ling  had  amused  her,  and  was  pleased 
with  her.  But  why  she  met  him  again  and 
yet  again,  it  is  difficult  to  say.  It  is  difficult 
also  to  understand  why  Tai  Ling,  who  so 
loved  sunshine,  and  flower  and  blue  water, 
should  have  lingered  in  fusty  Limehouse  for 
the  space  of  a  year.  But  the  two  of  them 
seemed  to  understand  their  conduct,  and  both 
were  happy.  For  Tai  Ling  had  a  little  apart- 
ment in  the  Causeway,  and  thither  Marigold 
would  flit  from  time  to  time,  until  .  .  . 

One  evening,  as  they  loafed  together  in  the 
hot,  lousy  dusk,  when  the  silence  was  so  sharp 
that  a  footstep  seemed  to  shatter  the  night, 
he  learnt,  in  a  flood  of  joy  and  curiosity  and 
apprehension,  that  he  was  about  to  become 
papa. 

It  overwhelmed  him.  He  nearly  choked. 
It  was  so  astounding,  so  new,  so  wonderful, 
so  ...  everything  that  was  inexpressible. 
Such  a  thing  had  not  happened  before  to  him. 
Hitherto,  he  had  but  loved  and  ridden  away, 


The  Father  of  Yoto 


the  gay  deceiver.  But  now He  ques- 
tioned, and  conjectured  what  was  to  be  done  ; 
and  Marigold  replied  airily  that  it  didn't 
matter  much ;  that  if  she  had  a  little  money 
she  could  arrange  things.  She  spoke  of  a 
Poplar  hospital  .  .  .  good  treatment  .  .  . 
quite  all  right ;  and  thereupon  she  collapsed 
at  his  feet  in  a  tempest  of  curls  and  tears. 

With  that,  his  emotions  cleared  and  calmed, 
and  resolved  themselves  into  one  definite 
quantity — pride.  He  drew  Marigold  on  to 
the  cushions,  and  kissed  her,  and  in  his 
luscious  tongue  he  sang  to  her ;  and  this  is, 
roughly,  what  he  sang :  an  old  song  known 
to  his  father  : 

"  O  girl,  the  streams  and  trees  glory  in  the 
glamour  of  spring ;  the  bright  sun  drops 
about  the  green  shrubs,  and  the  falling  flowers 
are  scattered  and  fly  away.  The  lonely  cloud 
moves  to  the  hill,  and  the  birds  find  their  leafy 
haunts.  All  things  have  a  refuge  to  which 
they  fly,  but  I  alone  have  nothing  to  which  to 
cling.  Wherefore,  under  the  moon  I  drink 
and  sing  to  the  fragrant  blossom,  and  I  hold 
you  fast,  O  flower  of  the  waters,  O  moon- 
blossom,  O  perfect  light  of  day  1 

"  Violets  shall  lie  shining  about  your  neck, 
and  roses  in  your  hair.  Your  holy  hands 
D  49 


Lime/iouse  Nights 


shall  be  starred  about  with  gems.  Over  the 
green  and  golden  hills,  and  through  the 
white  streets  we  will  wander  while  the  dawn 
is  violet-lidded  ;  and  I  will  hide  you  in  your 
little  nest  at  night,  and  love  shall  be  over  you 
for  ever ! >! 

That  was  his  song,  sung  in  Chinese.  It 
was  old — such  songs  are  not  now  written  in 
the  country  of  Tai  Ling,  except  by  imitators 
— and  Tai  Ling  might  well  have  forgotten  it 
in  the  hard  labours  of  his  seaman's  life.  But 
he  had  not,  and  when  it  was  finished,  Marigold 
\vas  pleased,  and  clung  to  him,  and  told  him 
that  she  so  loved  him  that  she  must  not 
inflict  this  trouble  upon  him.  But  he  wrould 
not  hear  her. 

"  Nonono,  Malligold,"  he  murmured,  while 
they  raptured,  "  Malligold — lou  shall  not  go. 
Lou  shall  stay  with  Tai  Ling.  Oh,  lou'll 
have  evelything  beautiful,  all  same  English 
lady.  Tai  Ling  have  heap  money — lea — and 
lou  shall  have  a  li'l  room.  .  .  .  Blimey — les 
.  .  .  clever  doctors  .  .  .  les." 

And  he  managed  it.  He  arranged  that 
chamber  and  that  landlady,  and  that  doctor 
and  nurse  were  duly  booked.  And  he  glided 
in  great  joy  next  evening  to  the  cafe",  to  in- 
form his  friends  that  he  was  about  to  have 

50 


The  Father  of  Yoto 


an  heir.  He  talked  loudly  and  volubly  in 
his  rich  seaman's  lingo,  and  suddenly,  in  the 
same  language,  a  voice  shot  through  the 
clamour  : 

"  Tai  Ling,  you  speak  no  truth  !  " 

Tai  Ling  sprang  up,  and  his  hand  flew  to 
the  waist  of  his  cotton  trousers,  and  flew 
back,  grasping  a  kreese. 

"Tai  Ling,"  repeated  the  voice,  still  in 
Chinese,  "  I  say  you  lie.  /  am  the  father  of 
li'l  Malligold's  babe  !  " 

At  that  moment,  anything  might  have 
happened,  had  not  two  shirt-sleeved  waiters 
slipped  dexterously  between  the  claimants, 
and  grasped  their  wrists.  Tai  Ling's  face 
was  aflame  with  as  much  primitive  emotion 
as  an  Oriental  face  may  show.  But  his  first 
rage  died,  as  another  voice  came  from  the 
bead  curtain  at  the  rear  of  the  little  cluster. 

"  Tai  Ling,  Wing  Foo,  you  both  speak  no 
truth.  For  Malligold  has  told  me  even  this 
evening  that  the  child  is  mine  !  "  And  the 
third  claimant  thrust  a  vehement  face  through 
the  curtain,  and  swam  down  among  them. 
"  I,"  he  cried,  his  hands  quarrelling  nervously 
at  his  bosom,  "  I — I  am  the  father  of  Malli- 
gold's man-child  !  " 

The  glances  of  the  three  met  like  velveted 


Lime/iouse  Nights 


blades.  For  one  moment  tragedy  was  in  the 
air.  Knives  were  still  being  grasped. 

Then  Tai  Ling  began  his  conquering  smile. 
It  was  caught  by  the  crowd  and  echoed,  and 
in  another  moment  light  laughter  was  running 
about,  with  chattering  voices  and  gesturing 
hands.  The  waiters  released  their  hold  on 
the  prospective  fathers,  and  the  three  com- 
petitors sat  down  to  a  table  and  called  for 
tea  and  sweet  cakes  and  cigarettes. 

One  must  admit  that  Marigold's  conduct 
was,  as  the  politicians  say,  deserving  of  the 
highest  censure  ;  but,  you  see,  she  was  young, 
and  she  needed  money  for  this  business — her 
first.  Some  small  amounts,  it  appeared,  she 
had  managed  to  collect  from  Wing  Foo  and 
his  friend,  but  neither  of  them  had  done  what 
Tai  Ling  had  done  so  magnanimously.  You 
would  have  thought,  perhaps,  that  by  all  the 
traditions  of  his  race,  Ling  would  have  been 
exceedingly  wroth  at  this  discovery  of  in- 
fidelity on  the  part  of  one  who  had  shared  his 
bed.  But  he  was  not.  He  sat  at  the  table, 
and  smiled  that  inscrutable,  shattering  smile, 
and  in  fancy  he  folded  Marigold  within  his 
brown  arms.  His  was  an  easy-going  dis- 
position ;  human  kindliness  counted  with 
him  before  tradition  and  national  beliefs.  A 

M 


The  Father  of  Yoto 


sweet  fellow.  A  rogue  himself,  he  did  not 
demand  perfection  in  others.  No  ;  the  in- 
fidelity did  not  anger  him.  The  only  point 
about  the  business  that  really  disturbed  him 
was  that  there  should  be  others  who  aspired 
to  the  fatherhood  of  this,  Marigold's  first 
child,  and,  he  believed,  his. 

So  they  sat  and  talked  it  over,  and  when 
they  parted,  and  each  went  his  way  into  the 
night,  to  tell  his  tale,  Tai  Ling  went  to  the 
Poplar  Hippodrome  to  drown  his  perplexity. 
There  he  witnessed  the  performance  of  a 
Chinese  juggler,  who  blasphemed  his  assistants 
in  the  language  of  Kennington  Gate,  and  was 
registered  on  the  voting  list  at  Camberwell 
as  Rab  M*  Andrew.  After  sitting  in  the  hall 
for  some  hour  and  a  half,  his  ideas  were 
adjusted,  and  he  went  to  the  house  where 
Marigold  was,  and  gently  charged  her  with 
what  he  had  heard.  She  fell  at  once  to  tears 
and  protestations  and  explanations,  and 
desired  to  go  away  from  him  for  ever.  She 
had  not  meant  wrong ;  but  .  .  .  she  did  not 
know  .  .  .  and  she  had  so  wanted  the  money 
.  .  .  and  .  .  . 

Well,  he  would  not  let  her  go.  He  caught 
her  back,  and  thrust  his  forgiveness  upon  her  ; 
and  the  whole  affair  ought  to  have  ended  in 

53 


Limekouse  Niphts 


disaster  for  both  of  them.  But  it  did  not, 
as  you  will  see. 

The  next  morning,  there  was  a  new  develop- 
ment. The  story  of  the  cafe  conversation 
was  racing  about  Limehouse  and  Poplar, 
when  it  came  to  the  ears  of  one,  Chuck  Light- 
foot,  a  pugilistic  promoter.  Now  parenthood 
is  not  an  office  which  the  Englishman  lightly 
assumes,  but  Chuck  straightway  butted  in, 
and  demanded  to  know,  with  menaces,  what 
was  the  matter  with  his  claim.  It  wasn't 
that  he  was  specially  anxious  to  father  the 
child.  Indeed,  the  success  of  his  claim,  and 
the  resultant  financial  outlay,  would  have 
seriously  disconcerted  him.  It  was  just  the 
principle  of  the  thing  that  riled  him.  Damn 
it,  he  wasn't  going  to  stand  by  and  be  dished 
by  any  lousy  scarleteer  of  a  yellow  devil ;  not 
much.  He  asserted  further  that  by  reference 
to  dates  he  could  prove  many  things  which 
went  far  to  establish  his  claim  ;  and,  finally, 
if  anyone  wanted  a  fight,  they'd  only  got  to 
ask  for  it. 

Apparently  no  one  did  ;  for  Tai  Ling  went 
about  with  that  smile  of  his,  and  shook  all 
seriousness  out  of  them.  During  the  week 
he  called  a  convocation  at  the  house  where 
he  had  installed  Marigold,  and  where  she 

54 


The  Father  of  Yoto 


now  lay,  and  there  they  gathered — three 
yellow  men,  proud,  jealous,  reticent,  and  one 
vehement  white  man,  hot-eared,  inarticulate, 
and  still  ready  to  fight  the  lot  of  'em.  Clearly 
a  mistake  had  happened  somewhere.  There 
had  obviously  been  a  miscalculation  on  some- 
body's part,  to  say  nothing  of  a  regrettable 
oversight.  But  whose  child  it  was  remained 
for  proof. 

There,  then,  Marigold  lay  in  a  comfortable 
bed,  comfortably  attended,  awaiting  her 
time  ;  while  four  men,  only  politely  recognis- 
ing each  other's  existence,  sat  below  and 
wrangled  for  the  honour  of  the  fatherhood. 
Was  ever  a  woman  in  so  shameful  and  so 
delicious  a  situation  ? 

At  about  four  o'clock  on  Saturday  after- 
noon, it  happened.  .  .  . 

News  was  brought  downstairs.  The  child 
was  yellow-white,  with  almond  eyes,  and  it 
was  unmistakably  the  child  of  Tai  Ling. 

Three  of  the  claimants  faded  away  before 
Tai  Ling's  sweet  obeisances  and  compliments, 
like  wind  over  the  grass ;  the  third  went 
raucously,  with  fierce  gesture  and  trivial  abuse. 

Now  in  Tai  Ling's  heart  was  great  joy,  and 
he  ambled  about  that  house,  in  his  sleek  little 
way,  doing  delicate,  pretty  things  which  no 

55 


Limehouse  Nights 


white  man  could  have  done  or  conceived. 
Seldom  has  a  wooing  and  matrimony,  so  con- 
ducted, led  to  the  house  of  bliss.  But  that  is 
where  Marigold  and  Tai  Ling  are  living. 

One  day,  when  the  baby  Yoto  was  six 
weeks  old,  there  arrived  at  the  house  six 
clusters  of  white  flowers  and  six  scented 
boxes — one  for  Marigold,  one  for  Yoto,  and 
one  each  for  the  three  disappointed  claimants ; 
and  these  love-gifts  were  duly  delivered  by 
Tai  Ling  himself  to  the  recipients,  all  of 
whom  received  them  sweetly,  save  Chuck 
Lightfoot;  and  what  he  said  or  did  is  of  no 
account. 

Tai  Ling  and  Marigold  are  still  in  West 
India  Dock  Road,  and  very  prosperous  and 
happy  they  are,  though,  as  I  say,  they  have 
no  right  to  be.  Yoto  has  now  a  brother  and 
a  sister,  each  of  whom  is  the  owner  of  a  little 
scented  box.  Visit  them  all  one  day,  at  the 
provision  shop,  which  is  the  third  as  you  pass 
Pennyfields  ;  and  they  will  tell  you  this  story 
more  delicately  and  fragrantly  than  I. 


5« 


Grade  Goodnight 


GRACIE  GOODNIGHT  had  the  love- 
liest hair  that  ever  was  seen  east  of 
Aldgate  Pump — where  lies  that  land 
of  lovely  girls  and  luxurious  locks.     It  was 
this  head  of  hers — melodious  as  an  autumn 
sunset — that  turned  the  discordant  head  of 
old  fat  Kang  Foo  Ah,  and  made  it  reel  with 
delicious  fancies,  and  led  him  to  hire  her  as 
a  daily  girl  to  clean  up  his  home  and  serve 
in  his  odoriferous  shop. 

It  was  legendary  in  Limehouse  that  old 
Kang  Foo  Ah  knew  a  thing  or  three.  When 
he  took  that  little  shop  in  Pennyfields, 
business  was,  according  to  those  best  qualified 
to  speak,  rotten.  Yet  now — in  the  short 
space  of  eighteen  months — he  had  a  very 
comfortable  fortune  stowed  away  in  safe 
places  known  to  himself.  Where  his  pre- 
decessor and  his  rivals  laid  out  threepence 
and  made  fourpence,  Kang  Foo  Ah  would 
lay  out  threepence  and  make  sixpence-half- 
penny. As  he  stood  behind  his  counter,  with 
the  glorious-headed  Gracie,  nimble-fingered 
and  deft  of  brain,  at  his  side,  he  would  smile 
blandly  upon  her  and  upon  his  customers ; 
his  hands,  begemmed  like  a  Hatton  Garden 
Jew's,  folded  across  his  stomach.  He  posi- 
tively exuded  prosperity,  so  that  its  waves 

59 


Limehouse  Nights 


seemed  to  beat  upon  you  and  set  you  tingling 
with  that  veneration  which  the  very  wisest 
of  us  feel  toward  material  success. 

Everything  of  the  best  and  latest  was  in 
his  shop.  There  were  dried  sharks'  fins, 
pickled  eggs,  twenty  years  old,  bitter  melons, 
lyche*e  fruits,  dried  chrysanthemum  buds,  tea, 
sweet  cakes,  "  chandu  "  and  its  apparatus, 
betel  nut,  some  bright  keen  knives,  and  an 
automatic  cash  register ;  while  on  the  walls 
were  Chinese  prints,  Tine  Police  Budget, 
strips  of  dried  duck  and  fish,  some  culinary 
utensils,  and  three  little  black  bottles  of 
fire-extinguisher,  with  printed  instructions 
for  use,  which  showed  that  Kang  Foo  Ah 
was  doing  so  well  that  he  had  insured  his 
premises  with  a  respectable  fire  insurance 
company. 

Oh — and,  of  course,  there  was  Gracie 
Goodnight ;  perhaps  the  happiest  touch 
which  earned  for  Kang's  store  the  reputation 
of  having  always  the  best  and  the  latest. 
The  boys,  yellow  and  white  and  black,  would 
come  to  the  store  and  spend  more  money  than 
they  could  afford  on  cigarettes  which  they 
didn't  want  and  dried  fruits  which  they 
couldn't  eat ;  and  Gracie  would  throw  out 
casual  invitations  to  come  again  and  bring 

60 


Grade  Goodnight 


a  friend  and  have  a  cup  of  tea  in  the  little 
curtained  room  at  the  back,  where  she  served 
or  sat  in  converse  of  an  evening. 

So  they  came  again,  and  the  bank  balance 
of  Kang  Foo  Ah  .  .  .  did  it  not  grow  and 
flourish  exceedingly,  like  the  green  bay-tree  ? 
It  did ;  and  as  he  grew  fatter  and  more 
prosperous,  so,  like  all  mankind,  he  grew 
more  independent,  insolent,  overbearing.  In 
a  current  phrase,  he  began  to  throw  himself 
about.  In  another  current  phrase,  equally 
expressive,  though  less  polite,  he  began  to 
make  himself  a  damned  nuisance.  At  times 
he  was  simply  unbearable ;  yet  there  was 
none  in  Chinatown  to  stand  up  to  him  and 
put  him  back  in  his  place.  They  endured  him 
meekly,  because  he  was  successful  and  they 
were  not. 

The  honour  of  putting  him  to  bed  was 
reserved  for  an  insignificant  gentleman,  not 
of  Chinatown,  who  resided  on  the  borders  of 
Poplar  and  Blackwall.  He  kept  the  Blue 
Lantern,  at  the  corner  of  Shan-tung  Place, 
and  it  was  a  respectable  house  ;  he  had  often 
said  so.  Now  as  Kang  Foo  Ah  had  never 
yet  known  any  to  stand  up  to  him,  he  foolishly 
began  to  believe  that  none  ever  would  do  so. 
He  overlooked  the  fact  that  he  had  never  yet 

61 


Lime/iouse  Nights 


matched  himself  against  the   landlord  of  a 
London  public-house.  .  .  . 

This  story  properly  begins  with  Kang 
tumbling  into  the  private  bar  of  the  aforesaid 
house,  and  demanding  a  gin  and  rum,  mixed. 
The  landlord  declined  to  serve  him.  Kang 
called  him  pseudonyms. 

Then  the  landlord  spoke,  wagging  an 
illustrative  finger  as  one  who  makes  the 
Thirdly  point  in  his  Advent  sermon. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  mind  you 
coming  to  my  'ouse  and  getting  drunk.  No. 
BUT  .  .  .  what  I  do  object  to  is  yer  getting 
drunk  at  someone  else's  'ouse,  and  coming 
'ere  to  be  sick.  Now  clear  out,  old  cock,  and 
toddle  'ome.  A  lemon-and-bismuth,  and 
you'll  be  top-hole  in  the  morning.  Off  yeh 
go." 

Kang  caught  the  bar  with  both  hands,  and 
leered  in  his  slimy  way. 

"  Kang  Foo  Ah  fine  fellow  .  .  ."  he  began; 
but  he  was  cut  short. 

"  Listen,"  said  Boniface.  "  Shall  I  tell 
you  what  you  are  ?  Yer  a  perfect  dam 
nuisance  to  any  decent  'ouse.  That's  what 
you  are.  A  perfect  dam  nuisance.  Yeh 
never  come  'ere  but  what  yer  drunk.  Never. 
Yeh  may  be  a  very  clever  chap,  and  yeh  may 

62 


Grade  Goodnight 


have  lots  of  money.  But  yer  a  damned 
nuisance,  and  it  won't  trouble  me  if  I  never 
see  yer  fat  face  in  my  'ouse  again.  And 
that's  telling  yeh.  Straight.  Yeh  know  now, 
doncher  ?  Now  beat  it,  else  I'll  sick  the 
cops  on  yeh.  Beat  it." 

In  the  phrase  in  which  the  only  onlooker 
told  the  story,  Kang  was  properly  told  off. 
He  slithered  and  gibbered  for  a  moment ; 
then  he  was  propelled  by  the  shoulder, 
through  the  swing  doors,  to  the  cold  pave- 
ment beyond.  His  voice  could  be  heard  in 
protest. 

"  Fairly  got  the  monkeys,"  said  the  land- 
lord to  the  only  onlooker,  as  he  returned 
to  the  bar.  "  Fairly  got  'em.  'Ear  what 
he  called  me  ?  " 

"  Got  the  monkeys  ?  "  echoed  the  only 
onlooker,  who  had  never  forgotten  that  he 
had  once  been  refused  credit  by  this  house. 
"  I  should  think  'e  would  get  the  monkeys. 
Anyone'd  git  the  monkeys  wiv  you  talkin* 
to  'em  like  that.  Got  no  tack,  you  ain't. 
Bin  and  lorst  a  good  customer,  now,  and  all 
because  of  yer  swank.  Didn'  you  tell  'im 
you'd  be  glad  to  miss  'is  vacant  face  ?  Didn' 
you  say  'e  was  the  stink  what  comes  out  of 
Wapping  at  night  ?  Didn'  you  say  'e'd 

63 


Lime/iouse  Nights 


make  a  bug  sorry  'e  was  masheeshing  around 
in  the  same  bed  with  'im  ?  Course  'e  got 
the  monkeys.  Who  wouldn't  ?  You  oughter 
learn  tack." 

Yes  ;  Kang  Foo  Ah  had  got  the  monkeys. 
He  had  them  so  badly  that  when  he  returned 
to  the  shop  in  Pennyfields,  and  caught  Gracie 
in  the  act  of  nicking  a  few  dry  cakes,  he  dis- 
charged her.  He  did  not  discharge  her  with 
any  great  exercise  of  "tack."  He  merely 
bellowed  upon  her  to  go ;  and  when  she 
stood  looking  at  him  in  dumb  wonder,  he 
grabbed  her  by  the  shoulders,  pinched  her 
neck,  tore  at  her  lovely  hair,  and  thrust  her 
bodily  over  the  step  into  the  narrow  street, 
even  as  himself  had  been  flung  by  the  keeper 
of  the  Blue  Lantern.  He  tossed  her  hat  and 
jacket  after  her,  crying  : 

"  Go,  thieving  girl  1  Go,  robber.  Daughter 
of  a  dog  ...  Go  !  " 

Now  in  Gracie's  heart  there  burned  a  very 
savage  flame  of  self-respect.  She  was  fond 
of  herself,  and  her  trim  little  person  and  her 
wondrous  hair  were  to  her  sacred  things,  not 
lightly  to  be  mauled  by  anyone,  and  certainly 
to  be  held  pure  from  the  loathly  yellow  hands 
of  a  Chinky.  But  what  fed  that  flame  with 
furious  fuel  was  Kang's  roared  accusation  of 

64 


Grade  Goodnight 


Thief.  All  Pennyfields — Chinks  and  whites 
— turned  out  to  hear  and  to  see.  They 
cackled  and  chi-iked.  All  heard  the  wretched 
name.  Many  saw  the  violent  expulsion,  and 
late-comers  arrived  at  least  in  time  for  the 
fun  of  seeing  Gracie  retrieve  her  hat  and 
jacket  from  the  puddle  where  they  had 
fallen,  put  them  on,  and  march  away  crying 
frightful  things  upon  her  employer,  and 
throwing,  deftly,  a  piece  of  road  mud  so  that 
it  spread,  pancake-wise,  over  his  window. 
None  moved  to  help  her  or  to  sympathise; 
they  were  either  telling  or  hearing  the  tale; 
and,  beautiful  as  she  might  be,  she  was 
now  a  figure  for  ridicule,  a  thing  of  no 
account,  cast  down  and  unheroic.  They  had 
patronised  the  shop  for  her  smiles  and  her 
chatter ;  but  now  she  was  absurd,  and  her 
physical  charms  availed  her  nothing  in  this 
moment  of  undignified  distress.  They  stood 
around  and  laughed.  They  pointed  fingers, 
and  their  mouths  went  wide  at  the  pathetic, 
screaming,  stamping  little  figure,  whose  flying 
hair,  ruffled  clothing,  vociferant  hands  and 
impotent  indignation  gave  her  momentarily 
the  air  of  a  pantomime  dame. 

44  I'll  git  back  on  him.     Christ,  I  will !  " 
she  cried,  and  kicked  a  furious  foot  in  his 
B  65 


Limehouse  Nights 


direction  as  she  swept  like  a  baby  tornado 
into  West  India  Dock  Road.  She'd  fix  him, 
good  and  plenty.  She'd  learn  him  to  fire 
white  girls  out  like  that.  She'd  learn  him 
to  put  his  slimy  hands  on  her  neck,  and  to 
mess  his  fingers  in  Gracie  Goodnight's  hair. 
She'd  show  him  what.  You  wait.  Not  to- 
day, perhaps,  or  to-morrow,  but  she'd  get 
him  all  right,  before  long.  She'd  put  it 
acrost  him  for  calling  Gracie  Goodnight  a 
thief.  She'd  show  the  nasty,  dirty,  slimy, 
crawling,  leery  old  reptile  how  he  could  catch 
hold  of  a  decent  girl  with  his  beastly,  filthy, 
stinking,  yellow  old  fingers.  Not  half,  she 
wouldn't.  .  .  . 

Of  course,  she  had  stolen.  Admitted  at 
once.  But  would  anyone  but  that  fat  old 
beast  take  any  notice  of  a  mouldy  old  cake  ? 
And  then  to  sling  you  off  without  notice. 
And  in  that  way,  too — putting  his  hands  on 
you  and  throwing  you  out.  And  then  chuck- 
ing your  things  at  you  in  the  gutter.  Oh, 
my  word  .  .  .  but  he'd  cop  out. 

He  did.  .  .  . 

Gracie  cried  herself  to  sleep  on  her  solitary 
and  doubtfully  clean  pillow  that  night,  after 
much  hard  thinking.  Two  days  later,  after 
a  consultation  with  a  few  pals  at  a  near 

66 


Grade  Goodnight 


corner,  she  came  to  the  loud  conclusion  that 
pride  was  all  very  well,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing ;  but  after  all,  you'd  got  to  live  some- 
how. She  would,  then,  sink  her  pride,  and 
go  and  ask  old  fat  Kang  Foo  Ah  to  take  her 
back  and  give  her  another  chance.  It  was 
known  that  the  two  days  had  marked  a 
distinct  drop  in  the  takings  of  the  store, 
especially  in  the  little  curtained  room  at  the 
back  where  tea  and  cakes  were  served  of  an 
evening.  Probably  he'd  be  glad  to  overlook 
it,  arid  take  her  on  again.  She  would  go 
that  night ;  and  she  let  all  Chinatown  know 
of  her  decision  to  ask  pardon  of  Kang. 

That  night  she  went.  It  was  a  reasonably 
cltar  night,  for  Limehouse,  and  the  lights  of 
the  Asiatic  quarter  glowed  like  bright  beads 
against  their  mellow  backgrounds  of  ebony 
and  olive.  A  sharp  breeze  from  the  river 
rushed  up  Pennyfields,  and  shop  signs  were 
swaying,  and  skirts  and  petticoats  were  hieing 
blown  about,  teasing  the  yellow  boys  with 
little  peeps  of  delicate  stocking  and  soft  leg. 
Gracie  came  along  with  her  friends,  holding 
hats  and  bowing  before  the  wind.  She  had 
brought  her  friends  because,  she  said,  she 
felt  rather  kind  of  squiffy  about  the  job,  and 
it  would  sort  of  buck  her  up  if  they  went 

67 


Limehouse  Nights 


with  her.  Besides,  you  never  knew :  he 
might  fly  at  her  again. 

The  expected  happened,  as  it  usually  does. 
Kang  Foo  Ah  was  again  in  a  bad  mood.  He 
was  seated  behind  his  counter,  gazing  ruefully 
at  the  little  tea-room,  now  empty  of  voice  and 
light  laughter  and  revenue.  A  large  white- 
shaded  lamp  stood  firmly  on  the  counter,  and, 
for  the  rest,  the  shop  was  lighted  by  two 
Chinese  lanterns  which  hung  dreamily  on 
the  wall. 

To  him  went  Gracie,  bold  of  bearing  but 
knocking  at  the  knees.  Outside,  in  the 
narrow  roadway,  her  three  friends — two  girls 
and  a  lad — stood  to  watch  the  fun  and,  if 
need  be,  to  render  assistance.  They  saw 
Gracie  go  in  and  address  her  master.  They 
saw  him  start  up  and  wag  a  severe  head. 
They  saw  Gracie  press  the  argument,  and 
move  to  the  side  of  the  counter  against  the 
lamp.  Words  passed.  The  old  man  seemed 
to  grow  angry  ;  his  gestures  and  his  lips  were 
far  from  friendly.  Gracie  leaned  forward 
with  a  new  argument.  His  face  darkened. 
He  answered.  Gracie  retorted.  Then  his 
great  arm  shot  swiftly  up.  Gracie  jumped 
back  with  the  fleetness  of  a  startled  faun. 
Her  muff  caught  the  white  china  lamp.  It 

68 


Grade  Goodnight 


went  with  a  crash  and  a  rush  of  flame  to  the 
floor. 

The  oil  ran,  and  the  fire  flew  up  to  the 
counter  where  the  dried  skins  hung.  In  five 
seconds  the  shop  window  was  ablaze.  Gracie 
screamed.  The  old  man  roared ;  and  they 
both  screamed  again,  for,  in  jumping  back- 
ward, Gracie  had  struck  with  the  feather  of 
her  hat  one  of  the  pendulous  lanterns  which, 
thus  agitated,  had  fired  itself,  and  the  flaming 
paper  had  dropped  on  Kang's  side  of  the 
counter,  where  were  candles  and  an  oil-tank. 

Pennyfields,  through  the  voices  of  Grade's 
three  friends,  screamed  too,  and  swiftly  the 
shops  and  the  lodging-houses  were  cleared 
of  their  companies.  Over  pavement  and 
roadway  the  yellow  boys  crowded  and  danced 
and  peered,  while  Gracie  stood  still,  her  hands 
at  her  glorious  head,  screaming  .  .  .  scream- 
ing .  .  .  screaming.  .  .  . 

The  massive  dignified  Kang  Foo  Ah  roared 
and  capered,  for  he  was  imprisoned  in  the 
narrow  space  behind  the  counter,  and  fire 
was  all  about  him.  The  doorway  was  blocked 
with  mad  flames  ;  exit  was  impossible  there  ; 
and  the  oil-tank  at  the  other  end  shot  ran- 
dom spears  in  every  direction.  Gracie,  with 
crouching  limbs  and  hands  clasped  in  a  gesture 

69 


Limehouse  Nights 


of  primitive  fear,  crept  back  and  back. 
They  were  lovely  hands,  white  and  slim  and 
shapely,  and  even  as  he  danced  and  howled, 
Kang  wondered  why  he  had  driven  them  away 
from  his  counter.  The  boy  friend  outside 
made  a  gallant  effort  to  dash  in  to  her,  but 
smoke  and  flarne  easily  beat  him  off. 

Now  the  street  began  to  scream  use- 
less advice,  admonition  and  encouragement. 
Women  in  safety  added  their  little  bit  to 
the  screaming.  They  cried  that  it  would 
spread,  and  soon  furniture  from  distant 
houses  was  crashing  and  bounding  to  the 
pavement ;  and  mattresses  were  flung  out 
from  upper  windows,  to  receive  the  indecent 
figures  of  their  owners.  Above  the  clamour 
a  lone  voice  cried  something  intelligible,  and 
soon  one  heard  an  engine  that  raved  and 
jangled  in  West  India  Dock  Road. 

Kang  Foo  Ah  danced  to  the  rhythm  of  a 
merry  tune.  "  Save  me  !  Save  me  !  JJ  he 
babbled.  "  I  give  heap  plenty  money  any- 
one save  me.  I  give  hundred  pounds — two 
hundred  pounds — anyone  save  me.  Ooo  1 
Save  me ! "  And  his  voice  trailed  into 
mournful  nothings. 

But  Gracie  had  now  crept  back  to  the  little 
tea-room,  and  she  cried,  in  her  clear,  shrill 

70 


Grade  Goodnight 


voice  :  "  Stand  still,  mister  !  I'll  save  you. 
I'm  going  to  save  you  !  "  And,  to  the  crowd  : 
"  Stand  clear,  there  !  I  know  a  way  to  save 
him.  Mind  the  glass  !  Look  out !  " 

A  swift  white  hand  reached  to  the  wall 
and  dragged  down  the  little  wire  cage  hold- 
ing the  extinguisher  bottles  which  the  wary 
insurance  company  had  provided.  But  when 
Kang  saw  what  she  would  be  at,  he  danced 
a  dervish  dance  more  furiously,  and  roared 
at  her  in  great  agony. 

"  No  —  no  —  no.  Get  water.  Get  water. 
Ao  !  Put  bottles  down.  Ao  !  " 

But  in  the  oblivious  courage  of  the  desper- 
ate, Gracie  heard  him  not.  She  held  one 
bottle  poised  in  a  light  hand,  approached  as 
near  the  flames  as  she  dared,  and  flung  it 
shrewdly  and  accurately  at  his  feet.  The 
second  she  flung,  and  the  third  she  flung,  and 
then  dropped  back,  panting  from  the  heat 
and  the  smoke,  to  the  tea-room,  where  she 
clutched  with  fumbling  fingers  at  the  bead 
curtain,  and  collapsed  in  a  swoon. 

And  terrible  things  now  happened.  For 
the  first  bottle  and  the  second  bottle  and  the 
third  bottle  smashed  at  the  feet  of  Kang  Foo 
Ah,  and  the  fire  did  not  subside.  It  rose 
over  the  counter,  faster  and  faster,  until  he 


Lime/wuse  Nighn 


was  swallowed  in  a  mouth  of  white  fire, 
through  which,  for  a  moment,  one  saw  his 
idiot  yellow  face  and  antic  limbs.  Then, 
mercifully,  he  disappeared.  .  .  . 

The  engine,  brave  with  noise  and  glitter, 
forced  a  way  up  the  street,  and  in  ten  minutes 
the  men  had  the  fire  well  under,  and  Gracie 
was  on  the  pavement  with  first-aid  men 
about  her.  As  the  water  coursed  over  her 
neck,  and  the  brandy  slid  between  her  lips, 
she  made  little  movements,  and  murmured. 

"  I  done  my  best,"  she  sobbed.  "  I  done 
my  best.  I  tried  to  save  him.  And  the 
shop,  too.  What  happened  ?  Is  he  all 
right  ?  " 

'*  Now,  kid,"  said  the  crowd,  "  that's  all 
right.  Don't  you  worry.  Feeling  better  ? 
That's  the  style." 

"  Yes  ;  you  done  all  right,  you  did.  No  ; 
we  couldn't  get  him.  He  was  under  before 
we  could  get  in.  Extinguishers  wasn't  much 
good  in  that  bloody  furnace." 

"  It  was  the  damn  pluckiest  thing  ever  I 
see.  You  done  your  best.  No  one  can't  do 
more'n  that.  Way  you  kept  your  nerve  and 
copped  hold  of  them  things." 

"  I  see  it  all,  I  did.  'Aving  a  row,  wasn't 
you  ?  When  he  knocked  the  lamp  over, 

72 


Grade  Goodnight 


trying  to  wollop  you  one  ?  Ah,  he  was  an 
old  blighter,  when  all's  said  and  done." 

So  Gracie,  pale,  trembling  and  dumb,  was 
lifted  to  her  feet  and  handed  over  to  her 
friends,  who  took  her  home.  The  inquest 
was  held  next  day,  and  various  witnesses  were 
called,  including  the  three  friends  who  had 
seen  everything  from  start  to  finish.  And 
Gracie  was  complimented  by  the  Coroner  and 
the  Brigade  Superintendent  on  her  courage, 
self-control  and  resource.  It  was  added  that 
the  Royal  Humane  Society  had  been  apprised 
of  the  facts  of  the  case;  and  although  Kang 
Foo  Ah  had  perished  in  the  fire,  it  was 
certainly  not  because  anything  that  could 
have  been  done  had  been  left  undone ;  Miss 
Gracie  Goodnight  had  done  more,  far  more, 
than  anyone,  especially  a  woman,  could  have 
been  expected  to  do  in  such  circumstances. 

There  were  cheers  for  Gracie  as  she  left 
the  court,  and  four  photographers  from  news 
agencies  and  picture  papers  stepped  forward 
with  levelled  cameras  to  get  lasting  records 
of  that  glorious,  smiling  head.  The  smile 
in  those  pictures,  which  you  may  find  if  you 
hunt  up  the  files,  is  as  strange  and  inscrutable 
as  the  smile  of  Mona  Lisa,  though  there  is 
that  in  its  pose  which  seems  to  say  :  "  Hands 

73 


Limehouse  Nights 


off.     I'll    learn    anybody    to  mess    my  hair 
about." 

For,  now  that  Kang  Foo  Ah  is  out  of  it, 
little  Gracie  Goodnight  is  the  only  person  in 
the  world  who  knows  that  those  extinguisher 
bottles  had  been  emptied  of  their  contents 
and  refilled  with  kerosene. 


The  Paw 


IT  was  the  maidenly  month  of  April,  though 
it  was  not  to  be  known  in  Pennyfields 
except  by  the  calendar  :  a  season  of  song 
and  quickening  blood.  Beyond  London,  amid 
the  spray  of  meadow  and  orchard,  bird  and 
bee  were  making  carnival,  but  here  one  still 
gambled  and  waited  to  find  a  boat.  Lime- 
house  has  no  seasons.  It  has  not  even  the 
divisions  of  day  and  night.  Boats  must  sail 
at  all  hours  at  the  will  of  the  tide,  and  their 
swarthy  crews  are  ever  about.  It  has  no 
means  of  marking  the  pomp  of  the  year's 
procession.  Lusty  spring  may  rustle  in  the 
hedgerows ;  golden-tasselled  summer  may 
move  on  the  meadows.  In  Limehouse  there 
are  only  more  seamen  or  less  seamen. 
Summer  is  a  spell  of  stickiness,  and  winter 
a  time  of  fog.  There  may  perhaps  be  those 
who  long  to  escape  from  it  when  the  calendar 
calls  spring,  to  kiss  their  faces  to  the  grass, 
to  lose  their  tired  souls  in  tangles  of  green 
shade ;  but  they  are  hardly  to  be  met  with. 
For  the  most,  Limehouse  is  sufficient.  These 
rather  futile  green  fields  and  songs  of  birds 
and  bud-spangled  trees  are  all  very  well,  if 
you  have  the  limited  mind,  but  how  much 
sweeter  are  the  things  of  the  hands,  the 
darling  friendliness  of  the  streets  1 

77 


Limehouse  Nights 


It  was  this  season  of  flower  and  awaken- 
ing that  was  the  setting  for  the  most 
shuddering  tale  that  the  Chinese  quarter 
can  tell. 

It  is  of  Greaser  Flanagan,  gateman  at  a 
docks  station,  and  his  woman  :  how  she  was 
stolen  from  him  by  Phung-tsin,  the  Chink, 
and  of  Flanagan's  revenge. 

Now  Greaser  Flanagan  was  a  weak  man, 
physically  and  morally  flabby.  Your  strong 
man  fears  nothing  but  himself.  The  Greaser 
feared  everything  but  himself.  He  feared 
God,  he  feared  the  devil,  and  other  men's 
opinions  and  their  hands,  and  he  feared  life 
and  death.  He  did  not  fear  himself,  for  he 
was  in  the  wretched  position  of  knowing 
himself  for  the  thing  he  was. 

He  was  not  a  bad  man.  He  had  neither  the 
courage  for  evil  nor  the  tenderness  for  good. 
He  was  a  Nothing.  He  did  not  smoke.  He 
seldom  swore.  He  did  not  drink.  But  he 
was  a  bit  of  a  hop-hoad,  and  did  sometimes 
hire  an  upper  room  in  the  Causeway,  and 
sprawl  his  restless  nerves  on  the  solitary  bed, 
with  a  pipe  of  li-un  or  a  handful  of  snow, 
and  from  it  snatch  some  of  the  rich  delights 
that  life  gave  to  others. 

Now  narcotised  sensibilities  are  all  very 
78 


The  Paw 

well  for  the  grey  routine  of  life.  They  help 
you  to  bridge  the  gaps.  They  carry  you 
through  the  tedium  of  things,  and  hold  you 
in  velvet  and  silk  against  the  petty  jolts 
and  jars.  But  when  the  big  crisis  comes, 
the  grief  of  a  lifetime  .  .  .  well,  that  you 
feel  just  ten  times  deeper  and  longer  than 
the  normal  person.  God  !  How  it  bites  and 
stings  and  lacerates,  and  bites  again,  and 
tears  the  roots  out  of  you,  and  creeps  into 
every  nerve  and  tissue  of  you,  and  sucks  at 
the  bones  1  How  it  scalds  and  itches  and 
bruises  and  burns  the  body  of  you,  and  colours 
every  moment  of  thought,  and  strangles 
your  sleep  1 

So  the  Greaser  found  it.  For  the  Greaser 
loved  his  wife  with  the  miserable,  furious 
passion  of  a  weak  thing.  He  loved  her  to 
life  and  death  as  such  men  do  when  they  rise 
to  it  at  all.  He  only  lived  when  with  her. 
Opium  could  not  give  him  what  even  the 
sense  of  neighbourhood  with  her  could  give 
him.  Of  all  things  in  the  world  he  loved 
only  her ;  his  crawling  blood  only  ran  warm 
when  she  was  by. 

Which  was  not  as  often  as  it  should  have 
been,  for  she  took  her  departures  when  and  as 
she  chose.  Sometimes  she  would  be  out  for 

79 


Limehouse  Nights 


a  day,  and  return  in  the  dark  morning,  with- 
out explanation  or  excuse. 

And  suddenly,  on  a  bright  Sunday,  he  lost 
her  for  all.  She  went  from  him  to  a  yellow 
man  in  Pennyfields,  leaving  a  derisive  note 
of  final  farewell.  The  brutality  of  the  blow 
got  him  like  a  knife  on  a  wound.  Something 
fouled  within  him,  and  for  an  hour  or  so  he 
was  stupid — a  mere  flabby  Thing  in  a  cotton 
suit.  Then,  as  his  faculties  returned,  they 
returned  in  fevered  form.  Something  had 
happened.  He  was  a  new  man — a  man  with 
an  idea — a  fixed  goal — a  haunting. 

The  Chinky  must  be  killed.  He  wanted 
to  kill  him,  but  he  knew  he  had  not  the  pluck 
or  the  strength  to  do  it.  Did  he  hate  Daffodil, 
his  girl  ?  No ;  he  loved  her  with  a  more 
absurd  little  passion  than  before.  He  wanted 
her  back,  but  not  to  harm  her.  It  was  the 
Chinky  on  whom  all  his  thin  rage  was  directed. 

The  Chinky  must  be  killed. 

The  Chinky  must  be  killed. 

Round  and  round  his  brain  it  rolled.  .  .  . 
Kill  the  Chink.  He  realised  dimly  that  his 
life  had  now  but  one  purpose,  the  outing  of 
the  Chink.  In  his  slow,  untaught  mind  a 
dozen  snakely  schemes  uncoiled  themselves, 
but  all  were  impracticable  for  him.  For  all 

80 


The  Paw 

^ — • «— — — — — — — — — ——^—^——^-^— •..—•«<• 

his  brute  ignorance,  however,  he  had,  as 
people  of  the  soil  often  have,  a  perception 
which  sometimes  leads  directly  to  surprisingly 
shrewd  conclusions,  to  which  the  educated 
mind  only  comes  by  steps  of  thought. 

He  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  rickety  chair,  his 
hands  on  his  knees,  his  face  to  the  floor ;  and 
so  he  sat,  all  through  that  Sunday  evening, 
thinking,  planning ;  now  determined,  now 
fearing.  But  that  night  he  began  his  work, 
and  in  five  days  it  was  done. 

There  had  been  born  to  Daffodil  and  the 
Greaser  a  daughter.  He  had  never  much 
noticed  the  child,  for  he  was  not  demonstra- 
tive, and  was  not  at  ease  with  any  children 
or  animals.  The  three  of  them  had  lived  in 
one  dirty,  bare  room  in  the  throttled  byway 
of  Formosa  Terrace,  one  room  in  which  they 
commonly  lived,  slept,  ate  and  toileted.  As 
he  lay  on  his  ragged  bed,  sleepless,  that  nigh  t, 
he  suddenly  saw,  clearly,  as  though  the  Fates 
had  placed  it  in  his  hand,  the  weapon  where- 
by he  should  achieve  his  desire.  He  dared 
not  do  it  himself.  His  limbs  had  shaken  for 
hours  at  the  mere  notion  of  the  act.  He  was 
afraid  of  a  fight  with  the  Chinky ;  and  he 
leapt  to  a  cold,  wet  terror  at  the  prospect  of 
the  Old  Bailey  and  the  light  cord.  But  ... 
f  Si 


Limekouse  Nights 


as  this  new  idea  came  to  him,  he  lay  and 
shivered  with  joy ;  the  joy  that  a  craftsman 
will  take  in  a  difficult  task  skilfully  performed. 
In  fifteen  minutes  it  was  all  planned.  It 
could  be  done — oh,  easy  !  The  result  would 
hurt  no  one.  A  few  years'  detention  in  a 
good  home  for  the  culprit,  and  then  release 
under  official  auspices — nothing  of  any  con- 
sequence. He  knew  well  the  material  he  had 
to  work  upon — nervous,  resilient  material, 
responsive  to  suggestion,  half  paralysed  by 
command — and  how  to  work  upon  it  in  such 
a  way  that  nothing  could  be  traced  to  him. 
Oh,  it  was  too  damned  easy,  with  that 
material — namely,  the  fruit  of  a  hysterical, 
erotic  girl  and  a  weedy  opium-jolter.  He  lay 
and  pinched  his  white  face  and  the  limp  hair 
about  his  mouth,  and  chortled.  He  would 
start  now.  In  the  corner  of  the  room 
farthest  from  the  window  was  young  Myrtle's 
mattress.  He  crawled  out  of  bed,  stretched 
himself  horribly,  and  moved  over  the  bare 
floor  to  where  she  lay  lost  and  lovely  in  sleep. 
Had  the  Greaser  heard  of  what  he  was 
about  to  do  as  the  conduct  of  another,  he 
would  have  turned  sick.  But  the  man  was 
mad,  soberly  mad.  The  thought  of  having 
the  horrid  Chinky  stark  and  stiff  and  blood- 

82 


The  Paw 

less  in  a  day  or  two  was  so  sweet  that  it 
burned  all  other  emotion  out  of  him.  Gawd 
— to  think  of  it !  Even  now,  when  Lime- 
house  Church  was  squeaking  one  o'clock, 
perhaps  the  Chinky's  lemon  hands  were  upon 
the  skin  of  his  Daffodil  !  Now,  perhaps,  he 
was  stripping  her,  kissing,  with  his  long,  wet 
lips,  all  the  beauty  of  white  arms  and  breast, 
and  knowing  by  now,  as  well  as  the  Greaser, 
every  bit  of  that  shining  body  that  had  been 
his  for  eleven  years,  and  still  was  his — his — 
his  !  Gawd  !  It  was  suffocating  to  think 
about !  If  he  was  a  strong  man — if  he  could 
get  the  throat  of  the  lousy  Chinky  in  his 
hands,  and  squeeze  the  wind  out  of  it ! 
But  he  had  seen  him  fight,  he  knew  the 
dexterity  of  his  tactics.  That  dexterity, 
however,  would  not  avail  against  this  new 
scheme. 

So  he  grabbed  the  thin  blanket  that  covered 
Myrtle,  flung  it  off,  and,  before  she  was  awake, 
half-a-dozen  sharp,  light  blows  had  fallen  on 
the  exposed  little  form  from  a  switch.  Three 
gasps  of  surprise,  and  then  a  scream  of  pain 
tore  through  the  night.  Again  and  again 
he  whipped  her,  against  her  screams  and 
struggles.  All  about  the  writhing  limbs  the 
fang  fell,  until  screams  and  appeals  sank  to 

83 


Limehouse  Nights 


moans  and  a  fight  for  breath ;  and  then  a 
hoarse  voice  came  to  her  out  of  the  dark  : 

"  Know  what  that's  for  ?  "  She  had  not 
the  strength  to  force  a  word,  but  at  a  sharp 
cut  she  pleaded  through  automatic  sobs. 

"  That's  'cos  yer  ma's  gone  with  the  yeller 
man,  that  is.  So  now  yer  know.  The  yeller 
man  took  yer  ma  away,  damn  'im,  and  I  gotter 
look  after  yeh  meself  now.  So  that'll  learn 
yeh  to  be'ave  yerself — see  ?  Someone  ought 
to  stick  a  knife  into  that  bloody  Chink — 
that's  what  they  ought.  Now,  hold  yer  row 
and  go  to  sleep,  else  you'll  have  some  more." 

As  quickly  as  he  had  descended  on  her,  he 
left  her  and  returned  to  bed,  and  there  he  lay 
murmuring  to  himself.  And  when  Myrtle, 
with  stifled  cries  and  sobs  and  chokings,  fell 
at  last  into  a  late  sleep,  it  was  with  terror  in 
her  heart,  and  a  voice  in  her  ears  that  was 
mumbling  :  "  Someone's  gotter  stick  a  knife 
inside  that  bloody  Chink  1  " 

Next  morning  he  said  nothing  of  the  hap- 
penings of  the  night,  but  he  did  not  go  to 
work.  And  suddenly  he  called  her  to  him, 
and  stood  her  between  his  knees,  and  so 
held  her  in  a  vice.  For  some  three  minutes 
he  held  her  thus,  staring  at  her,  silent 
and  motionless.  The  child  stood,  scarcely 

84 


The  Paw 

supported  by  the  little  strength  that  was  in 
her,  like  a  mesmerised  rabbit. 

Then  a  hand  concealed  behind  him  shot 
up  savagely  at  her  cheek.  She  reeled,  but 
made  no  movement  to  break  away,  and  as 
she  fell  sideways  across  him,  a  lean  dog-whip 
curled  with  a  clever  crack  about  her  legs.  He 
made  her  stand  up,  and  caressed  her  with  the 
whip,  letting  her  cower  away,  and  bringing 
her  smartly  back,  and  then,  through  her 
strangled  screams  and  moans,  she  became 
aware  that  he  was  singing.  The  tune  was  a 
music-hall  lilt,  and  the  song  was  : 

"  Someone  oughter  stick  a  knife — stick  a 
knife — stick  a  knife — someone  oughter  stick 
a  knife  acrost  that  bloody  Chink  !  " 

On  went  the  merry  song,  while  little  sup- 
plications, and  moans  rising  to  screams,  and 
screams  dropping  to  moans,  punctuated  it, 
and  with  each  scream  and  gasp  he  suffered 
a  thrill  of  ecstasy.  Then  he  made  her  un- 
dress, and  slashed  her  round  the  room, 
slashed  her  to  a  faint,  and  himself  to  a  whirl- 
wind of  profanity,  all  to  the  little  tune  of 
the  Chink.  As  she  dropped  in  a  grey  swoon 
at  the  window,  her  eyes  closed,  her  breathing 
scarcely  perceptible,  he  got  the  water-jug  and 
flung  its  contents  full  over  her.  A  mechanical 

85 


Lime/iouse  Nights 


panting  and  muscular  jerks  were  the  only  sign 
of  life ;  she  was  now  but  a  quivering  organ- 
ism. But  he  took  her  arm  and  twisted  it,  and 
the  new  shock  of  pain  aroused  her  to  the  tune 
of  "  Stick  a  knife — stick  a  knife — inside  that 
bloody  Chink  !  ':  She  was  too  weak  to  make 
any  sound,  or  to  plead  for  release  ;  and  while 
the  Greaser  got  some  cheap  whisky  from  a 
cupboard,  and  forced  her  mouth  open,  and 
poured  some  few  drops  down,  there  was  a 
terrible  silence  where  a  moment  ago  had 
been  lunatic  screams  and  the  voice  of  the 
whip. 

Then  he  dragged  her  up,  and  bade  her  dress, 
and  amused  himself  with  playing  the  switch 
about  her  beaten  limbs,  still  chanting  his 
song  ;  and  at  last  he  flung  her  to  a  corner, 
and  went  out,  locking  the  door  upon  her. 

He  had  begun  his  work  well.  For  as  she 
lay  there,  sick  with  pain,  bleeding  and 
lacerated  and  quivering,  knowing  nothing 
of  the  reason  for  this  change  in  the  nature 
of  things,  but  conscious  only  that  it  was 
not  so  before  ma  went  away,  she  had  in  her 
head  a  horrible  tune  that  jangled,  and  would 
not  leave  her.  It  tripped  to  the  racing  of 
her  burning  pulse,  to  the  throbbing  of  her 
scorched  body,  and  to  the  beating  of  the 

86 


The  Paw 

dynamo  in  the  gas-station  beyond  the 
window  : 

"  Someone  ought  to  stick  a  knife — stick  a 
knife — stick  a  knife — someone  ought  to  stick 
a  knife  across  that  bloody  Chink  1  " 

What  happened  during  the  next  four  days 
in  that  loathly  room  can  hardly  be  told. 
Day  and  night  there  were  screamings  and 
entreaties.  Not  one  night's  rest  did  she 
know.  Sleep  for  an  hour  he  would  give  her, 
and  then  she  would  be  awakened  by  a  voice 
singing  a  familiar  song  of  "  Stick-a-knife," 
and  lean  hands  that  worked  horrors  upon  her 
rosy  limbs. 

The  lemon-coloured  curls  and  the  delicate, 
light  beauty  of  her,  so  like  her  mother,  must 
often  have  smote  him,  but  he  never  swerved 
from  his  aim,  and  in  a  day  or  two  she  became 
an  automaton,  anticipating  his  wish,  moving 
at  a  turn  of  his  head,  obedient  to  his  un- 
spoken word.  As  his  idea  progressed  by 
these  methods  he  found  that  the  beast  that 
lies  in  all  of  us  had  burst  its  chain,  and  a 
lust  of  torture  possessed  him.  He  seemed  to 
lose  himself  in  a  welter  of  cruelty,  yet  never 
lost  his  sense  of  direction. 

In  the  intervals  of  these  debauches  and  the 
pursuance  of  his  plan,  his  love-mad  heart 

87 


Lime/iouse  Nights 


would  be  full  to  sickness  for  his  lost  Daffodil, 
and  the  beauty  of  her,  and  her  ways  and 
speech — how  thus  she  would  go,  and  thus, 
and  say  so  and  so.  He  would  awake  at  night 
and  not  find  her  by  him,  and  his  very  bones 
would  yearn  for  the  girl  who  had  chucked  him 
for  a  yellow  man.  And  then  he  would  think 
upon  his  plan,  and,  thinking  upon  that,  he 
would  try  to  further  it ;  and  once  the  beast 
of  cruelty  was  loosed  again,  it  would  run  in 
him  with  a  consuming  pace,  until  he  began 
to  fear  that  the  child  would  be  too  overdone 
for  his  desire. 

At  last,  on  the  fourth  day,  he  neared  the 
end.  She  had  been  laid  across  the  chair  and 
beaten  almost  to  physical  insensibility,  and 
the  inevitable  reaction  on  the  mind  had  left 
her  mentally  quiescent,  blank.  He  had  timed 
it  cunningly.  For  all  his  abandonment  to 
the  passion  of  torment,  some  poison  in  his 
blood  had  led  him  clearly  to  his  goal ;  and 
it  was  almost  with  a  shriek  of  glee  that  he 
heard  her  speak  after  one  of  those  assaults 
which  she  had  come  to  regard  as  normal  and 
to  accept  without  surprise. 

"  Dad — why  don't  someone  kill  the  Chink, 
then  ?  " 

He  held  himself  well  in  hand,  and  answered 
88 


The  Paw 

casually  :  "  'Cos  they're  all  afraid,  that's 
why." 

44  No  one  couldn't  kill  the  Chink,  could 
they  ?  " 

"  Course  they  could.  Easy.  Any  after- 
noon. All  them  lot  goes  to  sleep  every 
afternoon — Chinky,  too,  in  a  dark  room. 
Anyone  could  kill  'im  then.  As  easy  !  I'd 
like  someone  to  do  it,  that  I  would.  Taking 
yer  ma  away  from  you  and  me,  dammim  1  " 

"  How'd  they  do  it,  then  ?  " 

"  Why "  He  caught  her  by  the  frock, 

and  dragged  her  to  him.  The  physical  pain  of 
the  four  days  had  left  her  half  animal,  and  in 
her  face,  swollen  with  tears,  was  a  vacant  look 
with  less  of  intelligent  consciousness  than  a 
cat's.  She  did  not  notice  that  the  hand  that 
pulled  her  was  not  cruel,  but  gentle.  "  Why, 
easy  he'd  do  it.  He'd  go  to  the  Chink's  house 
— the  brown  'un  at  the  corner — and  he'd 
slip  through  the  door,  'cos  it's  alwis  open. 
And  he'd  creep  to  the  back  room  where  the 
Chinky  sleeps,  all  in  the  dark.  And  he'd 
creeeeep  up  to  the  bed.  And  he'd  have  the 
knife  in  both  hands.  And  he'd  bring  it 
down — Squelch  ! — into  the  Chinky's  neck — 
so!" 

He  pantomimed,  and  noticed  with  delight 
89 


Lime/louse  Nig/its 


that  the  child's  face  was  drawn,  as  in  one  who 
strives  to  learn  a  lesson. 

44  But  why  don'  someone  do  it,  then,  and 
bring  ma  back  to  us  ?  " 

"  Oh — 'cos  they're  afraid.  And  'cos  they 
mustn't — that's  why.  It'd  be  murder.  Kill- 
ing people  ain't  right.  Murder's  awful 
wicked." 

"  Don't  you  wish  Chinky  was  dead,  dad  ? 
I  do." 

"  Not  'arf  I  don't.  I'd  be  a  better  man  if 
Chinky  was  dead.  It  ain't  right  to  say  that, 
but  I  wish  he  was.  But  there  .  .  .  you 
don't  want  to  think  about  that  kind  of  thing. 
It  ain't  nice.  Don't  you  go  thinking  about 
it.  And  don't  talk  about  it  no  more.  Else 
you'll  get  some  more  of  what  I  just  done  to 
yer !  " 

Next  morning,  he  summoned  her,  and  tore 
the  frock  from  her,  and  whipped  her  again, 
and  tied  her  to  the  bed,  suspended,  so  that 
her  feet  twisted  and  just  touched  the  ground. 
And  there  he  left  her  till  noon.  Again  and 
again  her  aching  head  would  droop,  and 
throw  the  weight  on  her  arms,  and  every  time 
she  raised  it  she  would  see,  on  the  mantel- 
shelf before  her,  a  knife  that  was  not  there 
beiore— a  large,  lean  knife — and  a  cheap 


The  Paw 

"  sticky-back  "  photograph — a  portrait  of 
the  Chink.  And  as  she  swayed  with  the 
sustained  torture,  in  her  little  brain  sluggish 
thoughts  began  to  crawl,  and  the  golden  head 
was  moved  to  much  strange  reasoning. 

At  noon,  he  returned  and  released  her,  and 
let  her  dress,  and  gave  her  food.  At  about 
three  o'clock  he  departed  suddenly,  leaving 
the  door  unlocked.  He  stayed  away  for  part 
of  an  hour. 

When  he  came  back,  the  room  was  empty, 
and  he  had  great  joy.  His  heart  sang ;  he 
flicked  his  fingers. 

He  squatted  down  by  the  fetid  bed,  chew- 
ing a  piece  of  betel  nut,  and  waited  for  her. 

At  four  o'clock  he  heard  the  chatter  of  small 
feet  in  the  passage,  and  then  a  little  storm  of 
frock  and  dishevelled  stockings  burst  into  the 
room,  slipped  and  fell,  and  rose  again,  and 
fell  yet  again  on  seeing  the  Greaser's  sensual 
grin.  Her  face  was  whipped  to  a  flame,  and 
her  breathing  was  hard.  Her  hands  clutched 
the  breast  of  her  frock. 

"  Oh  !  "  was  the  cry  she  gave,  and  for  a 
moment  she  stood  transfixed,  expectant  of 
an  assault.  And  when  it  did  not  come,  she 
ran  on  : 

**  Oh,  dad,  don't  beat  me,  don't  whip  me. 


Lime/iouse  Nights 


Daddy,  I  only  run  out  just  to — to  do  some- 
think.  I  done  it,  dad.  I  done  what  they 
was  frightened  to  do.  Dad,  aincher  glad  ?  I 
bin  and  killed  him.  I  bin  and  killed  the 
Chinky.  I  done  him  in,  dad.  All  in  the 
dark.  He's  dead  all  right.  I  put  it  right 
in  ...  both  hands.  Don't  whip  me  no 
more.  I  thought  it'd  bring  ma  back,  p'r'aps. 
I  thought.  .  .  .  Oooh  1  Don't  look  like  that 
...  dad  !  ..." 

His  heart  leapt.  He  could  have  howled 
with  laughter.  He  wanted  to  kick  his  legs 
on  the  bed,  and  roll  about.  But  he  veiled  all 
truth,  and  stared  at  the  child  with  a  face  that 
assumed  a  grey  terror. 

"  You  done  .  .  .  what  ?  "  he  asked,  in 
slow  tones  of  wonder.  "  You  done  .  .  . 
you  killed  someone.  .  .  .  Myrtle  .  .  .  killed 
that  Chink.  Oh— my— Gawd  !  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  with  stark  simplicity, 
stupidly  fingering  a  large  knife  which  she  had 
drawn  from  under  her  frock.  "  Yep.  I  done 
'im  proper.  'Cos  he  took  ma  away  from  us. 
Look — here's  the  knife.  I  went  right  in,  all 
in  the  dark.  Mind — it's  «£t.  It  went  right 
in.  It  didn't  half  spurt  out." 

"  Oh,  Gawd,"  he  screamed,  acting  better 
than  he  knew.  "  Blood.  Oh,  Gawd  1 "  He 

9* 


The  Paw 

sank  limply  to  the  bed,  his  figure  a  question 
mark.  Then  he  leapt  up,  dashed  to  the  door, 
and  rushed,  in  a  cloud  of  words,  to  the  street, 
crying  hoarsely : 

"  Oh,  Gawd  1  Police  !  Police  !  Someone 
tell  the  police.  My  kid's  done  a  murder. 
Our  Myrtle's  bin  and  killed  a  Chink.  Oh, 
Gawd.  Oh,  Gawd.  Come  in,  someone. 
Someone  go  in  to  her.  She's  stuck  a  knife 
in  a  Chink,  and  she's  playing  with  it,  and  it's 
got  blood  on  it.  Oh,  Gawd,  can't  someone 
tell  the  police  !  " 

In  the  space  of  a  minute,  Formosa  Terrace, 
at  that  hour  torpid  and  deserted,  awoke  to 
furious  life.  A  small,  vivid  crowd  surrounded 
him,  and  he  stood  at  its  centre,  gesturing 
wildly,  his  hair  dropping,  his  face  working, 
as,  fifty  times,  he  told  his  tale. 

Then  a  whistle  was  blown,  and  slowly  the 
police  came  ;  and  some  went  to  Pennyfields, 
to  the  house  of  the  Chink,  and  another  took 
the  child,  and  the  sergeant  took  the  Greaser 
and  questioned  him.  He  had  it  all  so  pat, 
and  was  so  suitably  garrulous  and  agitated, 
that  he  noted  with  glee  how  suspicion  fell 
from  him. 

Yes,  the  knife  was  his ;  it  had  been  given 
him  at  the  docks  by  a  Malay.  Yes,  he  did 

93 


Limehouse  Nights 


hate  the  Chink  because  the  Chink  had  taken 
his  wife,  the  child's  mother  ;  and  quite  prob- 
ably he  had  said  that  the  Chink  ought  to  die. 
Not  the  right  thing  to  say,  perhaps,  but  quite 
likely  he'd  said  it,  because  he  felt  like  that 
then.  No,  he  hadn't  been  to  work  to-day, 
but  he'd  been  round  at  old  Benny's  most  of 
the  morning,  and  the  people  downstairs  saw 
him  come  in  about  an  hour  ago.  Yes,  he 
had  punished  the  child  several  times  lately. 
Had  had  to.  His  missus  had  gone  with  the 
Chink,  and  left  him  alone  with  the  child  to 
look  after  as  well  as  himself,  and  he  couldn't 
manage  her.  He'd  had  to  whip  her  because 
she  was  dirty.  (He  brushed  away  a  well- 
forced  tear.)  But  if  ever  he'd  have  thought 
anything  like  this  was  going  to  happen,  he'd 
never  have  left  that  knife  there.  Gawd  help 
him  if  he  would.  To  think  that  his  kid — 
his  only  kid — should  do  a  murder.  It  was 
awful.  What'd  he  done  to  deserve  two 
blows  like  that  ?  His  wife  gone  ;  and  now 
his  little  kid  to  kill  someone.  .  .  .  Gawd. 

And  he  broke  upon  the  arms  of  the 
supporting  constables. 

Myrtle  and  he  were  taken  to  the  station, 
the  child  wondering  and  a  little  pleased  with 
the  novelty ;  he  with  his  life's  work  done, 

94 


The  Paw 

his  Daffodil's  ravisher  put  to  sleep.  His 
statement  was  taken  again,  and  he  was  told 
that  he  must  consider  himself  detained  with 
the  child,  to  which  he  brokenly  concurred. 

Now  there  came  to  the  station  the  officers 
who  had  visited  the  Chink's  house,  and  they 
made  a  verbal  report  of  what  they  had  seen. 

And  suddenly,  there  burst  upon  the  quiet 
station  a  great  howl — the  howl  of  a  trapped 
beast,  as  Greaser  Flanagan  fell  forward  over 
the  desk  and  hammered  the  floor  with  his 
fists. 

"  Yerss,"  the  constable  was  saying  ;  "  yerss 
— we  bin  there.  Found  the  body  all  right. 
In  bed.  Knife  wound  through  the  neck — 
left  side.  On'y  it  ain't  the  Chink.  It's  a 
woman.  It's  Daffodil  Flanagan  1  " 


The  Cue 


DOWN  Wapping  way,  where  the  streets 
rush  right  and  left  to  water-side  and 
depot,  life  ran  high.  Tide  was  at 
flood,  and  below  the  Old  Stairs  the  waters 
lashed  themselves  to  fury.  Against  the 
savage  purple  of  the  night  rose  a  few  wisps 
of  rigging  and  some  gruff  funnels  :  lyrics  in 
steel  and  iron,  their  leaping  lines  as  correct 
and  ecstatic  as  a  rhymed  verse.  Under  the 
cold  glare  of  the  arc  lights,  gangs  of  Asiatics 
hurried  with  that  impassive  swiftness  which 
gives  no  impression  of  haste.  The  acrid 
tang  of  the  East  hung  on  every  breath  of 
air. 

Hardly  the  place  to  which  one  would 
turn  as  to  the  city  of  his  dreams ;  yet 
there  are  those  who  do.  Hearts  are  broken 
by  Blackwall  Gardens.  The  pity  and  terror 
and  wonder  of  first  love  burn  in  the  blood 
and  limbs  of  those  who  serve  behind  the 
counters  of  East  India  Dock  Road  or 
load  up  cargo  boats  at  the  landing-stages. 
Love-mad  hands  have  buried  knives  in 
little  white  bosoms  in  Commercial  Road, 
and  songs  are  written  by  the  moon  across 
many  a  happy  garret-window  in  Cable 
Street. 

Once,  in  these  streets,  when  the  gas  lamps 
99 


Lime/iouse  Nights 


glimmered   and    the   night   was   stung   with 

stars,  I  heard  a  tale. 

•  •  •  •  •  •  • 

The  little  music  hall  near  the  water-side 
had  just  slammed  its  doors  on  the  last  stage 
hand,  and  stood  silent  and  dark.  Stripped 
of  its  lights  and  noise,  it  gave  rather  the 
impression  of  last  night's  beer :  something  flat 
and  stale  and  squalid.  It  seemed  conscious 
of  the  impression  it  created ;  there  was  some- 
thing shamefaced  about  it,  as  of  one  caught 
doing  unmentionable  but  necessary  things. 

At  the  mouth  of  the  stage-door  passage, 
illumined  by  a  gas  jet  which  flung  a  light 
so  furtive  as  to  hint  that  it  could  show  a  great 
deal  more  if  it  would,  stood  a  man  and  a  girl. 
The  girl  was  covered  from  neck  to  foot  in  an 
old  raincoat.  The  man  wore  soiled  evening- 
dress,  covered  by  an  ulster.  A  bowler  hat 
rode  cockily  on  one  side  of  his  head.  A  thin 
cigar  thrust  itself  impetuously  from  a  corner 
of  his  large  mouth.  Approached  from  be- 
hind, he  looked  English,  but  his  face  was  flat, 
and  his  head  was  round.  The  colour  of  his 
skin  was  a  murky  yellow.  He  had  almonds 
for  eyes.  His  hair  was  oily.  He  was  a 
half-caste :  the  son  of  a  Shadwell  mother  and 
a  Chinese  father. 

zoo 


The  Cue 

He  put  both  hands  on  the  girl's  shoulders. 
He  spoke  to  her,  and  his  face  lit  with  slow 
passion.  She  shook  her  head.  She  laughed. 

"  Nit,  Chinky,  nit.  You're  a  nice  old  boy, 
I  know,  and  it  was  real  kind  of  you  to  give 
me  all  those  nice  things.  But  it  wouldn't 
be  fair  for  me  to  lead  you  on,  y'know.  I 
don't  love  you.  Not  a  bit.  Never  did.  I've 
got  my  boy.  The  boy  I  work  with.  Been 
with  him  for  five  years  now,  I  have.  So 
that's  that.  And  now  I  must  pop  off,  else 
the  old  thing  will  be  wondering  what's 
happened  to  me." 

The  half-caste  musician  glared  down  at  her. 
He  pawed  her.  He  told  her,  in  his  labial 
enunciation,  that  she  was  too  pretty  for 
music-hall  work.  He  told  her  that  she  was 
a  wonderful  girl,  and  murmured  :  "  Sweet, 
lovely  li'l  girl.  Oh,  my  beautiful,  my 
beautiful !  " 

She  tittered ;  and  when  she  moved  away 
he  walked  by  her  side,  stroking  her  sleeve. 
She  began  to  talk  conversationally  : 

"  Never  mind,  old  boy.  Cheer  up.  Rotten 
house  to-night,  wasn't  it  ?  I  thought  we  was 
going  to  get  the  bird,  specially  when  you 
missed  the  cue  for  our  change.  Oh,  and  by 
the  way,  be  careful  of  those  changes,  old  boy. 

101 


Lime/iouse  Nights 


Y'see,  Johnnie's  been  doing  that  collapsing 
trapeze  stunt  for  about  five  years  now,  and 
he  always  does  it  to  The  Bridal  Chorus  music. 
You  want  to  watch  that,  y'know ;  you 
changed  about  half-a-tick  too  soon  to-night, 
and  anything  like  that  jars  him.  See  ? 
Well,  here's  my  turning.  So  long,  kid." 

But  he  did  not  let  her  go.  His  tone  of 
casual  compliment  swiftly  changed.  He 
caught  her  wrists  and  held  them.  "  I  want 
you  !  "  His  straight,  flat  lips  were  moist. 
She  drew  away  ;  he  pulled  her  to  him,  bent, 
swung  her  from  he;  feet,  and  crushed  her 
small  body  against  his,  bruising  her  little 
mouth  with  angry  kisses. 

But  she  raised  a  sharp  hand  and  pushed 
him  in  the  face. 

"  Here — steady  on,  Chinky  !  "  she  cried, 
using  the  name  which  she  knew  would  sting 
him  to  the  soul.  She  was  disconcerted  and 
inclined  to  be  cross,  while  half  laughing. 
"  Don't  take  liberties,  my  son.  Specially 
with  me.  You're  only  a  yellow  rat,  y'know." 

Something  flickered  for  an  instant  beneath 
his  long,  narrow  lashes,  and  in  another  instant 
was  gone.  He  bent  again.  "  O  li'l  lovely 
girl.  .  .  .  My  dear  1  "  Some  beast  seemed 
to  leap  within  him.  His  hands  mauled  her 

102 


The  Cue 

with  intent  cruelty,  as  though  he  would  break 
and  devour  her. 

"  Don't !  "  she  enjoined.  "  Chuck  it— 
you  look  such  a  silly  fool  !  "  She  thrust  him 
away,  and  rearranged  her  disordered  hair. 
She  was  not  by  any  means  afraid  of  him ; 
wasn't  he  only  a  poor,  wretched  half-caste  ? 
But  at  the  same  time  she  didn't  want  him ; 
didn't  like  the  odour  of  his  oily  black  hair 
which  was  right  under  her  nose,  or  the  reek 
of  stale  smoke  that  hung  about  his  dress-suit. 
She  skipped  out  of  his  reach,  and  cocked 
a  little  finger  at  him,  while  she  sang,  light- 
heartedly  : 

"  I  love  you,  little  yellow  bird, 
But  I  love  my  libertee  1 " 

Like  a  yellow  wraith  Cheng  Brander  faded 
into  the  night,  his  face  and  gait  calm  and 
inscrutable.  Before  him  danced  the  face  of 
Jewell  Angell,  like  a  lamp  lit  by  the  pure 
candour  of  her  character :  Jewell  Angell, 
the  lady  partner  in  the  music  hall  acrobatic 
turn  of  Diabolo  and  Angela. 

He  walked  home,  suffering  an  overmaster- 
ing desire  to  hurt  this  beautiful,  frail  thing 
that  had  called  him  Yellow  Rat.  To  strike 
her  physically  would,  he  knew,  be  useless ; 

103 


Limehouse  Nights 


these  fool  English  did  not  understand  that 
women  might  justifiably  be  struck  ;  and  also, 
Jewell  was,  by  her  profession,  too  hard  and 
sturdy,  for  all  her  appearance  of  frailty,  to 
be  hurt  by  any  blow  that  he  could  deliver 
on  her  body.  But  there  were,  perchance, 
other  ways.  His  half-Oriental  brain  uncoiled 
itself  from  its  sensuous  sloth  and  glided 
through  a  strange  forest  of  ideas,  and  Cheng 
Brander  slept  that  night  in  the  bosom  of  this 
forest. 

Next  evening,  as  musical  director  of  the 
dusty,  outmoded  theatre  of  varieties,  he 
climbed  to  his  chair,  his  blinking  face  as 
impassive  as  ever,  his  hand  as  steady.  Some 
of  the  boys  in  the  orchestra  had  often  objected 
to  working  under  a  yellow  peril,  but  he  was  a 
skilled  musician,  and  the  management  kept 
him  on  because  he  drew  to  the  hall  the 
Oriental  element  of  the  quarter.  He  ducked 
from  below,  slid  to  his  chair,  and,  on  the 
tinkle  of  the  stage  manager's  bell,  took  up  his 
baton,  tapped,  and  led  the  boys  through  some 
rag-tag  overture. 

Diabolo  and  Angela  were  fourth  call,  and 
at  the  moment  of  the  overture  they  were  in 
their  dressing-rooms,  making  up.  Their  turn 
consisted  of  an  eccentric  gymnastic  display, 

104 


The  Cue 

culminating  in  a  sensational  drop  by  Diabolo 
from  a  trapeze  fixed  in  the  flies  to  a  float- 
ing trapeze  on  the  stage.  The  drop  involved 
two  somersaults,  and  the  space  and  the 
moment  must  be  nicely  calculated  so  that  his 
hands  should  arrive  in  precise  juxtaposition 
with  the  swing  of  the  lower  trapeze.  Every 
movement  in  the  turn  and  the  placing  of 
every  piece  of  property  was  worked  out  to  the 
quarter-inch.  The  heightening  or  lowering 
of  either  trapeze,  by  the  merest  shade,  would 
make  a  difference  in  the  extent  of  his  reach 
and  might  turn  the  double  fall  into  disaster. 
Everything  being  fixed  in  the  usual  way — 
and  he  always  personally  superintended  the 
fixing  of  his  props — Diabolo  knew  exactly 
when  to  fall  and  how  far  to  swing  out.  He 
would  wait  for  The  Bridal  Chorus,  catch  the 
tact  of  the  music  in  his  pulses,  and  the  rest 
was  automatic,  or,  at  any  rate,  sub-conscious. 
On  the  first  note  of  a  certain  bar,  he  would 
swing  off  and  arrive  a  second  later,  on  the 
lower  bar.  For  five  years  he  had  done  the 
trick  thus,  and  never  once  had  he  erred.  It 
was  as  easy  as  stepping  off  the  pavement ; 
and  so  perfectly  drilled  were  his  muscles  and 
nerve  centres  that  he  got  no  thrill  of  any 
kind  out  of  his  evening's  work. 

105 


Limehouse  Nig/ih 


The  call-boy  shot  a  bullet  head  through 
Diabolo's  door,  and  cried  for  band  parts. 
They  were  flung  at  him — band  parts  com- 
posed of  a  medley  of  popular  airs.  He 
returned  ten  minutes  later. 

"  The  Six  Italias  are  on,  sir." 

"  Right-o !  "  said  Diabolo,  and  descended 
the  stone  stairs.  In  the  wings  he  met  Jewell, 
and  they  moved  round  the  front  cloth,  before 
which  a  girl  was  snarling  and  dancing  and 
divulging  the  fact  that  her  wardrobe  was  of 
the  scantiest.  They  moved  among  their 
props,  pulling  at  this,  altering  that,  and 
swearing  at  the  stage  hands,  who  accepted 
curses  as  other  men  accept  remarks  about 
the  weather. 

"  Hope  that  yellow  pussy'll  get  your 
changes  a  bit  smarter  to-night,"  said  Jewell. 
41  Did  I  tell  you  the  little  perisher's  been  after 
me  ?  Yep.  .  .  .  Fancy  thinking  I'd  take  him 
on  !  Fresh  little  greaser  1  Mauled  me  about, 
too.  I  pretty  quick  dropped  it  across  him, 
you  bet." 

"Good,"  said  Johnnie.  "I'll  pull  his 
yeller  face  to  bits  if  he  comes  round  you 
while  I'm  about.  Tell  him  from  me  he'd 
best  stop  trifling  with  suicide.  Better  ring 
through,  p'r'aps,  and  tell  him  to  follow  our 

106 


The  Cue 

marks  on  the  score.  Here — Fred — ring  the 
band,  will  you,  and  tell  him  Diabolo  and 
Angela  want  him  to  watch  out  for  their  cues, 
'cos  he  mucked  'em  last  night.  Tell  him  we 
change  to  Number  Five  directly  I'm  up  the 
rope." 

They  drew  back  to  the  wings  as  the  serio- 
comic girl  kicked  a  clumsy  and  valedictory 
leg  over  the  footlights  and  fell  against  the 
entrance  curtain.  They  heard  their  sym- 
phony being  blared  by  the  brass,  and  then, 
with  that  self-sufficient,  mincing  gait  tradi- 
tional to  the  acrobat,  they  tripped  on. 

It  was  a  poor  house — a  Tuesday  night 
house — thin  and  cold.  They  did  not  go  well ; 
and  while  Diabolo  was  doing  the  greater 
share  of  the  stunts,  Jewell  stood  against  the 
back-cloth,  with  arms  behind  her  in  the  part 
of  the  attendant  sprite.  From  there  she 
was  looking  into  the  bleak,  blank  face  of 
Cheng  Brander,  and  she  thought  that  a 
baboon  might  wag  a  baton  with  as  much 
intelligence.  His  attitude  in  the  chair  was 
always  the  same :  negligent,  scornful.  He 
saw  nothing  from  his  Olympian  detachment, 
looked  at  none  of  the  turns,  smiled  at  none 
of  their  quips,  but  leant  back  in  his  chair  at 
a  comfortable  angle,  his  elbow  resting  on  the 

107 


Limehouse  Nights 


arm,  his  wrist  directing  the  beat  of  the  baton, 
his  glance  fixed  either  on  the  score  or  wander- 
ing to  the  roof. 

Following  a  brilliant  display  of  jugglery 
with  Indian  clubs,  Johnnie  bowed  and  danced 
himself  up-stage,  whence,  by  a  pulley-rope,  he 
was  hauled  to  the  flies.  Jewell  mouthed  at 
the  stage  manager  in  the  wings.  The  stage 
manager  spoke  through  the  telephone,  and 
Cheng  Brander,  bending  to  the  receiver, 
listened  : 

"Number  Five,"  said  the  voice  to  Cheng 
Brander. 

"  Number  Nine,"  said  Cheng  Brander  to 
his  men. 

"  One  !  Two  !  Three  !  "  cried  the  voice  of 
Johnnie  from  the  flies.  The  audience  could 
just  perceive  his  head,  as  he  swung  by  the 
legs  from  the  upper  trapeze. 

"  Number  Nine,"  Cheng  Brander  had 
said,  and  the  band  blared,  not  The  Bridal 
Chorus,  but  Stars  and  Stripes.  Johnnie  was 
swinging  in  rhythm  to  a  melody  with  which 
he  was  so  familiar  that  he  was  expecting  it 
before  a  bar  was  to  be  heard.  He  was  antici- 
pating the  beat  of  The  Bridal  Chorus,  and  the 
muscles  of  his  legs  had,  of  their  own  accord, 
slacked  their  hold  on  the  bar  in  readiness  for 

108 


The  Cue 

the  exact  moment  of  release,  when  his  ears 
told  him  of  a  mistake.  Something  was 
wrong  somewhere  —  something  —  something. 
...  In  a  fraction  of  a  second  he  realised 
that  the  beat  of  the  music  was  not  the  beat 
to  which  his  nerves  were  keyed.  In  a 
fraction  of  a  second  he  tried  to  recover,  to 
check  the  incipient  fall.  But  his  nerves, 
thrown  out  of  gear  by  this  unexpected 
rhythm  at  such  a  moment,  failed  to  respond. 
The  trapeze  swung  forward.  His  hands 
clutched  air.  His  legs  went  limp.  He  came 
down  on  his  head.  One  heard  a  muffled 
blow  as  of  something  cracking. 

A  short,  sharp  gasp  came  from  the  house. 
Cheng  bent  forward  and  peered  across  the 
lights.  The  curtain  fell,  and  the  house  rose, 
sick  and  disquieted.  As  it  fell,  the  woman 
rushed  down-stage,  and  bent  with  fond  hands 
and  inarticulate  cries  over  the  body  of  her 
boy. 

"The  man's  dead,"  said  Cheng.  "The 
show's  stopped.  Play  them  out  with  The 
Chinese  Patrol"  He  raised  his  baton,  and 
his  face  was  grave  and  inscrutable,  save  for 
a  tiny  flickering  at  the  yellow  eyelids,  which 
told  that  he  was  very,  very  happy. 


109 


IT  is  an  episode  in  the  life  and  death  of 
Beryl  Hermione  Maud  Chudder  and   of 
Croucher  Stumpley,  and  it  is  told  because 
it  is  beautiful,  and  because  the  rest  of  England 
arose  in  its  fat,  satin'd,  Bayswater  wrath,  and 
called  it  beastly.     Horrid  things  have  to  be 
told  with  it,  as  with  all  tales  of  Limehouse  ; 
but  hear  the  story,  if  you  will,  and  be  gentle, 
be  pitiful. 

The  Croucher,  known  also  as  the  Prize 
Packet  and  the  Panther,  was  only  a  boy,  just 
nineteen ;  and  when  he  quitted  the  ring  one 
Saturday  night  at  Netherlands,  after  a  heavy 
and  fast  fifteen  rounds,  in  which  only  the 
gong  had  saved  his  opponent  from  the  knock- 
out, it  was  with  a  free  mind,  careless  of  the 
future,  joyful  in  the  present.  He  had  no 
fight  in  view  for  another  two  months  ;  there- 
fore he  could  cut  loose  a  bit,  for,  in  wine  or 
want,  he  was  always  gay.  There  had,  then, 
been  drinks  after  the  fight — several ;  but  it 
was  the  last  that  did  the  trick — an  over-ripe 
gin.  It  had  made  him  ill,  and  he  had  slouched 
away  from  the  boys  to  be  ill  quietly.  Now  he 
wanted  something  to  pull  him  together  again, 
for  he  thought — as  one  does  think  after  three 
or  four — that  five  or  six  might  do  the  trick ; 
so  behold  him,  at  ten-thirty  on  this  Saturday 

H  113 


Limehouse  Nights 


night,  loafing  along  East  India  Dock  Road, 
and  turning  into  Pennyfields.  From  Penny- 
fields  he  drifted  over  West  India  Dock  Road, 
passed  a  house  where  a  window  seemed 
deliberately  to  wink  at  him,  and  so  swung 
into  that  Causeway  where  the  cold  fatalism 
of  the  Orient  meets  the  wistful  dubiety  of 
the  West.  Here  he  was  known  and  popular 
with  the  Chinkies,  for  he  was  a  quiet  lad,  with 
nothing  of  bombast,  and  liked  to  talk  with 
them.  Besides,  he  was  famous.  He  had 
knocked  out  Nobby  Keeks,  the  Limehouse 
Wonder,  and  had  once  had  Seaman  Hunks 
in  serious  difficulties  for  ten  rounds,  though 
matched  above  his  weight ;  and  altogether 
was  regarded  as  a  likely  investment  by  the 
gang  that  backed  him. 

In  the  Causeway  all  was  secrecy  and 
half  tones.  The  winter's  day  had  died  in 
a  wrath  of  flame  and  cloud,  and  now  pin- 
points of  light  pricked  the  curtain  of  mist. 
The  shuttered  gloom  of  the  quarter  showed 
strangely  menacing.  Every  whispering  house 
seemed  an  abode  of  dread  things.  Every 
window  seemed  filled  with  frightful  eyes. 
Every  corner,  half  lit  by  the  bleak  light  of 
a  naked  gas-jet,  seemed  to  harbour  unholy 
things,  and  a  sense  of  danger  hung  on  every 

114 


Beryl  and  the  Croucher 

step.  The  Causeway  was  just  a  fog  of  yellow 
faces  and  labial  murmurings. 

The  Croucher  entered  the  littlo  bar  at  the 
corner.  The  company  was  poor  :  two  bash- 
ful Chinkies  and  two  dock  drunks.  As  he 
strode  in,  one  of  the  drunks  was  talking  in 
tones  five  sizes  larger  than  life.  The  land- 
lord was  maintaining  his  reputation  for 
suaviter  in  modo  by  informing  him  at  intervals 
that  he  was  a  perfect  bloody  nuisance  to  any 
respectable  house,  and  the  sooner  he  drank 
up  and  cleared  and  never  came  near  his  bar 
again,  the  better ;  while  his  pal  attended  to 
the  fortiler  in  re  by  prodding  him  repeatedly 
over  the  kidneys. 

"  Well,  if  yer  want  a  woman,  have  a 
woman,  and  shut  up  about  it." 

"  Aw  right.  I'll  give  ten  bob  for  one 
to-night — there  !  "  And  with  a  proud  hand 
he  jumped  a  half-sovereign  on  the  table  and 
caught  it. 

The  Croucher  had  a  brandy,  and  followed 
the  conversation  without  listening.  He  was, 
as  he  said,  off-colour.  Bad-tempered  about 
everything,  like,  and  didn't  know  why. 
Everything  was  all  right.  But  .  .  .  well, 
he  just  felt  like  that.  He  wanted  something 
to  happen.  Something  new.  His  thoughts 

115 


Umehouse  Nights 


swam  away  ]ike  roving  fish,  and  came  back 
suddenly,  as  the  roaring  of  the  two  drunks 
dropped.  It  was  one  of  the  Chinks  who  was 
talking  now,  in  a  whisper  : 

"  Ah  said  get  you  one  for  twelve  shillings." 

The  drunk  thrust  up  a  distorted  jaw  and 
stared  at  him.  The  stare  was  meant  to  be 
strong  and  piercing ;  it  was  merely  idiotic. 

"  What's  she  like  ?  " 

"Dark.    Heap  plitty." 

"  Give  you  ten  bob." 

"  No.    Twelve  shillings.     Nice  gel." 

"  Where's  she  come  from  ?  How  long  you 
had  her  ?  " 

Now  the  Croucher  pricked  up  his  ears  and 
butted  in.  He  had  an  idea.  Here  was 
something  that  might  amuse  him  for  a  bit, 
and  take  off  that  sickish  feeling.  A  nice 
girl.  .  .  .  Good  fun.  Yes,  rather.  He  had 
wanted  something  fresh,  some  kind  of  excite- 
ment to  stir  things  up  a  bit.  He  felt  better 
already. 

"'Ere,  Chinky,"  he  called.  "Leave  that 
blasted  drunk  and  come  over  here.  Got 
somethink  for  yeh." 

The  blasted  drunk  got  up,  by  a  grip  on  the 
Chink's  coat  tail,  and  mentioned  that  he'd 
show  kids  whether  they  could  insult  a  perfly 

1x6 


Beryl  and  the  Croucher 

respectable  sailor  by  ...  He  then  saw  that 
the  kid  was  the  Croucher,  and  his  mate 
pulled  him  back,  and  he  slid  off  the  seat  and 
was  no  more  heard  of. 

"  Look  here,  Chinky,"  murmured  Croucher, 
*'  I'll  .  .  .  what  you  going  to  have  ?  Right-o. 
Two  brandies,  quick.  ...  Is  this  all  right, 
this  gel  ?  " 

"  Sh  !  Les.  Always  all  light  with  Wing 
Foo,  eh  ?  " 

"  Well,  listen.     I'm  on  to  that.     See  ?  " 

Wing  Foo  slid  aside,  and  conferred  with  his 
fat  yellow  friend. 

"  All  light,"  he  agreed,  returning  to  the 
Croucher.  "  You  come  'long  now,  and  see 
her.  You  have  my  room,  les." 

The  three  slid  into  the  Causeway  together. 
The  air  was  busy  with  the  wailing  of  a  Chinese 
fiddle.  All  about  them  was  gloom ;  twilit 
shops ;  snatches  of  honeyed  talk ;  fusty 
smells ;  bits  of  traffic ;  seamen  singing. 
They  crossed  the  read,  slipped  Pennyfields, 
and  came  to  the  house  set  with  its  back  to  the 
corner  whose  single  window  had  winked  at 
the  Croucher  a  few  minutes  past. 

The  door  yielded  at  a  push,  and  they 
entered  the  main  room,  lit  by  a  forlorn  candle. 
The  elder  Chink  extended  a  flat  hand.  The 

117 


Limehouse  Nights 


Croucher  filled  it  with  thirty  pieces  of  silver, 
and  the  bargain  was  made.  One  of  them 
disappeared,  and  a  moment  or  so  later  the 
purchase  appeared  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
which  led  from  the  fireplace.  On  seeing  the 
Croucher  her  colour  grew,  and  she  gave  a 
quick  gasp  of  surprise  which  was  unnoticed 
by  the  Chinks.  But  the  Croucher  caught  it. 
Beryl  Hermione  Maud  was  dark  and  just 
fourteen ;  a  neat  little  figure,  not  very  tall 
for  her  age,  but  strangely  intuitive,  over-ripe, 
one  might  say.  Morally,  she  had  grown 
too  fast.  Though  only  fourteen  years  were 
marked  in  the  swift  lines  of  her  form,  in  her 
face  were  all  the  wisdom  and  all  the  tears  of 
the  ages.  She  was  one  of  those  precocities 
which  abound  in  this  region.  She  had  a 
genius  for  life,  for  divining  its  mysteries, 
where  others  wait  on  long  years  of  experience. 
Her  father  had  said  that  she  was  a  fast  little 
bitch  because  she  stayed  out  late  and 
lengthened  her  skirts,  and  he  threatened  to 
wallop  her  if  she  didn't  behave  herself.  She 
then  made  the  mistake  of  assuming  that  this 
new  dignity  afforded  her  the  protection  of 
maturity,  and  proceeded  to  further  liberties. 
Her  father  made  haste  to  shake  her  belief  in 
this  idea,  and  to  remind  her  that  she  was  only 

118 


Beryl  and  the  Croucher 

fourteen,  by  turning  up  those  lengthened 
skirts  and  giving  her  the  spanking  she  de- 
served. This  so  exasperated  her  that  she 
ran  away  from  Tidal  Basin,  and  here  she  was 
with  the  yellow  men. 

She  really  was  a  dainty  production.  Not 
beautiful  in  the  Greek  sense,  for  there  is 
nothing  more  tedious  than  the  Greek  idea 
of  beauty  and  proportion.  Beryl  Hermione 
Maud's  beauty  was  more  interesting ;  in- 
definite, wayward.  The  features  were 
irregular,  but  there  was  some  quality  in  the 
face  that  called  you  back.  To  look  into  it 
was  to  look  into  the  solemn  deeps  of  a 
cathedral.  Only  the  lips  held  any  touch  of 
grossness.  Her  skin  was  translucent  and 
fine.  Her  thick  loaded  curls  tumbled  to  her 
neck.  Her  glances  were  steady  and  reticent, 
and  in  her  movements  was  the  shy  dignity  of 
the  child. 

The  Croucher  was  fairly  drunk  by  this 
time,  but  he  was  sober  enough  to  look  at  her 
and  discover  that  she  was  desirable,  and  had 
great  joy  to  give  to  men.  He  swayed  across 
to  her,  and  put  his  steely  arms  about  her 
white  neck.  She  greeted  him  with  a  smile, 
and  remained  limp  and  passive  under  his 
embrace,  her  face  lifted,  expectant.  A 

119 


Limehouse  Nights 


shudder  ran  about  her  of  delight,  fear,  and 
wonder.  He  was  about  to  seal  the  bargain 
with  an  unholy  kiss  when  through  the  hush 
of  the  hour  came  the  crack  of  a  revolver  shot. 

All  started.  A  moment  later  came  a  great 
shout,  and  then  a  babble.  There  was  chorus 
of  many  feet.  The  noise  swelled  to  a  broad 
roar,  the  feet  came  faster. 

Smack  !  came  a  stone  at  the  window,  and 
a  trickling  of  broken  glass.  The  Croucher 
swung  away  from  Beryl  Hermione  Maud  and 
looked  out.  A  man,  his  whole  body  insane 
with  fear,  was  running  to  the  house  ;  behind 
him  was  a  nightmare  of  pursuers.  Five 
seconds,  and  he  was  at  the  door.  Without 
knowing  why,  the  Croucher  pulled  it  open. 
The  man  collapsed  in  the  little  room.  The 
Croucher  shut  the  door. 

"  Good  Gawd,  the  ol'  man  !  " 

"  Let  yer  old  dad  in,  boy !  Gimme  a 
chance  !  .  .  .  Oh,  Gawd.  They  nearly  'ad 
me.  I  done  a  murder.  Just  'ad  time  to 
run.  Old  Borden  told  me  you'd  gone  with 
the  Chinks.  'Elp  me,  boy,  'elp  me.  Don't 
let  'em  git  me.  They'll  'ang  me.  'Ang  me. 
Oh,  Christ — they're  coming  1  "  His  voice 
rose  to  a  scream.  "Don't  go  back  on  me. 
Gimme  a  chance  to  hide.  Keep  'em  back 

120 


Beryl  and  the  Croucher 

while  I  get  wind.  I  can't  run  no  more.  Go 
out,  and  'it  'em,  boy.  You  can.  Stand  by 
yer  dad  1  " 

But  the  Croucher  was  not  wanting  these 
appeals.  Already  he  had  dragged  the  old 
man  up,  and  sat  him  in  a  chair.  Now  there 
was  a  fury  of  police  whistles  spurting  into  the 
night  like  water  on  a  fire.  The  anger  of  the 
streets  came  to  them  in  throbbing  blasts. 
The  Croucher  slipped  to  the  window.  From 
under  his  coat  he  drew  a  Smith- Wesson.  The 
old  man  stretched  a  stupid  hand. 

"  D—d—d— don't !  Don't  shoot  'em. 
Fight  'em !  " 

"  Blast  you — and  shut  up  !  "  snapped  the 
Croucher.  "  It's  all  right.  It'll  just  stop 
'em.  It's  blanks." 

He  raised  the  gun  to  the  broken  pane  and 
fired,  twice.  It  did  stop  'em.  It  wasn't 
blank.  It  was  ball. 

The  leading  officer  went  down  and  out. 
The  next  man  took  his  bullet  in  the  thigh. 
Both  tumbled  ridiculously,  and  the  crowd 
behind  gyrated  on  them  like  a  bioscope 
44  comic."  Those  who  were  able  sorted  them- 
selves out  and  ran  zealously  home.  The 
others  remained  to  strugg  e  and  to  pray. 

"  Bloody  fool  1  "  cried  the  old  man.     "  You 

121 


Limekouse  Nights 


done  it  now.  Oh,  Christ.  We  both  done  a 
murder  now.  Gawd  'elp  us  1  " 

"Damn  good  job  !  " 

Stumpley,  the  elder,  collapsed  in  his  chair 
again,  his  face  white  and  damp  with  sweat. 
The  Chinks  waited,  as  ever,  impassive.  The 
Croucher  stood  out,  alert,  commanding. 

"Bolt  the  door,"  said  the  Croucher. 

"  Clamp  the  windows,"  said  the  Croucher. 

"  Light  the  lamp,"  said  the  Croucher. 

The  door  was  bolted,  the  windows  clamped, 
the  lamp  lit.  The  four  men  regarded  one 
another.  Behind  them,  in  the  shaking 
shadow,  stood  Beryl  Hermione  Maud.  Then 
the  Croucher  saw  her.  "  Send  the  girl  up- 
stairs," he  said  ;  and  she  went. 

It  was  a  curious  situation.  The  Chinks 
didn't  give  a  damn  either  way.  They  were  all 
in  for  a  picnic  now — or  something  worse  than 
a  picnic — if  there  is  anything  worse.  Life  or 
death — it  was  all  one  to  them.  The  old  man 
had  killed  someone ;  he  would  be  hanged.  The 
boy  had  killed  someone ;  he  would  be  hanged. 
They  would  be  charged  with  harbouring,  and 
facts  about  the  little  girl,  and  about  other 
business  of  theirs  would  come  out.  So,  as 
there  would  be  trouble  any  way,  they  were 
quite  prepared  to  take  what  came.  l"hen 

122 


Beryl  and  the  Croucher 

there  was  the  old  man,  palsied  with  fright, 
hoping,  anticipating,  hysterical  and  inarticu- 
late. Then  there  was  the  Croucher,  in  love 
with  life,  but  game  enough  to  play  his  part 
and  keep  his  funk  locked  tightly  inside  him. 
Finally  there  was  the  girl,  who — but  what  she 
felt  is  but  a  matter  for  conjecture.  So  far, 
she  had  shown  about  as  much  emotion  as  any 
girl  of  her  age  shows  when  the  music-teacher 
arrives.  The  others  took  a  clear  attitude 
on  the  situation.  She  was  a  dark  horse.  In- 
deed, she  might  just  as  well  not  have  been 
there,  and,  so  far  as  the  men  were  concerned, 
she  was  not.  She  was  simply  forgotten. 

They  sent  her  upstairs  and  left  her,  while 
they  argued  and  fought  and  barricaded.  But 
she  must  have  thought  hard  and  lived  many 
hard  years  during  those  two  days  of  the 
Swatow  Street  siege,  when  she  waited  in  the 
upper  room,  forlorn  and  helpless. 

Presently  one  of  the  Chinks  retired  and 
came  back  with  two  revolvers  and  a  small  tin 
box. 

"  Guns,"  he  said  simply. 

"  Gimme  a  shot  o'  dope,"  slobbered  the  old 
man.  "  Gimme  a  jolt,  Chinky." 

The  Croucher  stared  at  the  guns.  "  Oh. 
Going  to  'ave  a  run  for  yer  money,  old  cock  ? 

123 


Limehouse  Nights 


Well,  we're  all  in,  now.  Only  a  matter  o* 
time.  They're  bound  to  win  in  the  end. 
Tip  out  the  bunce,  old  sport.  Ball,  all  the 
time.  If  they're  going  to  take  me  alive, 
they'll  lose  half-a-dozen  of  their  boys  first. 
They're  all  round  the  back  now.  I  'card  'em. 
We  can't  get  out.  It's  rope  for  me  and  dad. 
And  it's  a  stretch  for  you  two.  Round  to  the 
back,  you  Chinky.  Keep  the  window  and 
the  door.  Good  job  I'm  drunk.  You — up 
to  the  back  window.  Watch  for  ladders. 
We'll  show  'em  something." 

He  did.  You  will  recall  the  affair.  How 
the  police  surrounded  that  little  Fort  Chabrol. 
How  the  deadly  aim  of  the  half-drunk 
Croucher  and  the  cold  Chinkies  got  home  on 
the  Metropolitan  Police  Force  again  and  again. 
How  the  Croucher  worked  the  front  of  the 
house,  which  faces  the  whole  length  of  the 
street,  and  how  the  Chinkies  took  the  back 
and  the  roof.  How  the  police,  in  their  help- 
lessness against  such  fatalistic  defiance  of 
their  authority,  appealed  to  Government,  and 
how  the  Government  sent  down  a  detachment 
of  the  Guards.  You  will  recall  how,  in  the 
great  contest  of  four  men  and  a  girl  v.  the 
Rest  of  England,  it  was  the  Rest  of  England 
that  went  down.  The  overwhelming  minority 

124 


Beryl  and  the  Croucher 

quietly  laughed  at  them.  Of  course,  you 
cannot  kill  an  English  institution  with  ridicule, 
for  ridicule  presupposes  a  sense  of  proportion 
in  the  thing  ridiculed  ;  but  there  was  another 
way  by  which  the  lonely  five  put  the  rest  of 
England  to  confusion. 

It  was  all  very  wicked.  Murder  had  been 
done.  It  is  impossible  to  justify  the  situa- 
tion in  any  way.  In  Bayswater  and  all  other 
haunts  of  unbridled  chastity  the  men  and 
the  girl  were  tortured,  burnt  alive,  stewed  in 
oil,  and  submitted  to  every  conceivable  pain 
and  penalty  for  their  saucy  effrontery.  Yet 
somehow,  there  was  a  touch  about  the  whole 
thing,  this  spectacle  of  four  men  defying  the 
whole  law  and  order  of  the  greatest  country 
in  the  world,  that  thrilled  every  man  with  any 
devil  in  him. 

It  thrilled  the  Croucher.  The  theatricality 
of  it  appealed  irresistibly  to  him.  Just  then, 
he  lived  gloriously.  While  old  Stumpley 
snivelled  and  convulsed,  he  and  his  Chinks 
put  up  a  splendid  fight.  Through  a  little 
air-hole  of  the  shuttered  window  Croucher 
wrought  his  will  on  all  invaders,  and  when  the 
Guards  erected  their  barricade  at  the  end  of 
the  street  he  roared. 

Zpt!      Zpt!       Zpt!     Their    rifles     spat 
125 


Limehouse  Nights 


vicious  death,  and  tinkles  of  glass  and  plaster 

announced  the  coming  of  the  bullets.     But, 

by  the  irony  of  things,  the  defenders  remained 

untouched. 

•  •••••  • 

It  was  on  the  night  of  the  second  day  that 
the  Croucher  began  to  be  tired,  and  to  feel 
that  things  must  be  ended.  He  and  the 
Chinks  had  accepted  the  situation,  and  had 
kicked  old  man  Stumpley  into  a  corner. 
Then  they  had  taken  turns  in  watching  and 
sleeping.  The  rest  of  England  had  kept  up 
a  desultory  plopetty-plop-plop  at  their  block- 
house, bringing  down  bits  of  plaster  and  wood- 
work and  other  defenceless  things.  But  it 
could  not  go  on  for  ever ;  and  two  days  of 
siege,  with  constant  gripping  of  a  gun,  is  too 
much  for  the  nerves,  even  when  you  know 
that  death  is  at  the  end  of  it.  He  did  not 
fancy  walking  out  and  being  shot  down, 
though  this  is  what  the  old  man  wished  to  do  ; 
in  fact  they  had  had  to  hold  him  down  in  his 
chair  that  very  morning  to  prevent  him.  He 
did  not  fancy  the  inglorious  death  of  a  self- 
directed  bullet ;  and  he  certainly  was  not 
going  to  a  mute  surrender  and  the  farce  of  an 
Old  Bailey  trial.  He  asked  something  larger, 
something  with  more  .  .  . 

126 


Beryl  and  the  Croucher 

He  then  discovered  that  his  thoughts  were 
running  in  the  same  track  as  on  the  night 
that  began  the  trouble,  and  association  of 
ideas  at  once  brought  the  girl  to  his  mind. 
Gawd !  Here  he  was  going  out,  and  he 
hadn't  had  his  time,  his  damfinold  time  that 
he  had  promised  himself.  After  all,  he  might 
as  well  have  his  penn'orth.  He'd  done 
murder,  which  was  the  worst  thing  you  could 
do.  So  he  might  just  as  well  get  some  fun 
out  of  lesser  offences.  What-o !  It  happened 
to  be  his  turn  to  watch  ;  but  he  might  just  as 
well  have  company  for  the  watch  ;  and,  any- 
way, there  was  nothing  to  watch  for.  There, 
before  them,  was  the  whole  of  English  civilisa- 
tion, holding  back  in  fear  of  four  men  with  a 
large  supply  of  cartridges.  England  hoped 
to  starve  them  into  surrender  so  that  it  could 
hang  them  comfortably  ;  that  much  of  their 
tactics  he  had  divined.  So — on  with  the 
dance  !  And  then — Ta-ta  ! 

He  slipped  upstairs  to  the  room  where  they 
had  locked  Beryl  Hermione  Maud,  lest  she 
might  make  trouble.  He  unlocked  the  door 
and  entered. 

It  is  not  definitely  known  what  happened 
at  that  interview.  He  was  there  some  while, 
and,  when  he  came  down,  he  cama  down,  not 

127 


Limehouse  Nights 


gay  and  light-hearted,  as  he  had  gone,  but 
morose,  changed.  Something  in  his  face,  in 
his  manner,  had  altered.  It  was  as  though 
he  had  tightened  up.  He  moved  about  as 
a  man  pondering  on  something  which  he  is 
near  to  solving.  The  subject  of  his  pondering 
was  Beryl  Hermione  Maud.  For  this  had 
happened — in  those  few  full  moments  he  had 
awakened  to  the  meaning  of  love. 

When  he  awoke  in  the  late  morning,  after 
relief  by  Wing  Foo,  he  learned  that  his  old 
dad  was  lying  in  the  roadway  just  outside. 
He  had  dashed  out  before  either  could  stop 
him,  and  had  gone  down  to  half-a-dozen  shots. 

That  settled  it.  They  might  as  well  finish 
their  cartridges  and  then  finish  the  whole 
thing.  They  might  as  well 

What  the  hell  was  that  coming  downstairs  ? 
Smell  it  ?  Burning — eh  ?  Smoke — look  at 
it !  Gawd ! 

The  Croucher  leapt  upstairs. 

He  leapt  upstairs  to  Beryl  Hermione 
Maud.  But  the  smoke  came  from  her  room. 
He  roared  at  the  door  and  dashed  upon  it. 
It  swung  open.  Flame  alone  held  it.  She 
was  gone.  Then  he  turned,  and  saw  her  on 
the  narrow  landing,  choking  and  blinking 
through  a  cloud  of  smoke,  as  in  a  dream. 

128 


Beryl  and  the  Croucher 

"  What  the  bloody-  Come  outer  that ! " 
he  yelled,  and  grabbed  her  sleeve.  "  Quick 
— it'll  be  on  us  in  a  minute."  He  shoved  her 
before  him  to  the  stairs,  but  she  drew  back. 
"  Who  done  it  ?  "  he  gasped. 

"  No — no.  Stop.  I  done  it.  There  was 
some  paraffin  in  the  cupboard  there.  And 
some  matches.  I  started  the  wall  where  the 
paper  was  loose.  It'll  be  through  in  a 
jiffy.  .  .  .  No,  I  ain't  going  down." 

"  What  the  devil  .  .  .  What  the Don* 

be  a  fool.  You  can  get  out.  I'll  come  wiv 
yer.  Quick — it's  catching  the  stairs  !  " 

There  they  stood  in  the  golden  haze, 
while  tongues  of  flame  lisped  wickedly  about 
them.  The  heat  was  insufferable,  the  smoke 
asphyxiating.  Suddenly,  through  the  crack- 
ling of  wood,  came  a  revolver  shot.  The 
Croucher  leaned  over  the  crazy  banister. 
Wing  Foo  had  found  honourable  death. 

Beryl  Hermione  Maud  softly  touched  his 
arm.  "  Come  in  here.  This  room.  It'll  get 
here  last."  Something  in  her  voice,  her 
gesture,  struck  him  silly.  He  couldn't 
have  commanded  at  that  moment.  He 
obeyed. 

When  in  the  little  room,  she  shut  the  door, 
and  snakes  of  smoke  crawled  under  it.  Then 
i  129 


Limehouse  Nights 


she  stepped  quietly  to  him,  put  her  hands 

about  his  face,  and  kissed  him. 

•  •••••• 

There,  virtually,  the  story  ends,  though 
much  happened  between  them  before  their 
course  was  run.  There  was  talk,  curious 
talk,  the  talk  of  a  woman  of  thirty  to  the  man 
of  her  life,  monstrous  to  hear  from  a  child  to 
a  boy  of  nineteen.  There  were  embraces, 
garrulous  silences,  kisses,  fears  and  tremblings. 
In  those  moments  the  Croucher  awoke  to  a 
sense  of  the  bigness  of  things.  He  became 
enveloped  in  something  ...  a  kind  of  ... 
well,  the  situation  and — oh,  everything.  The 
murder,  the  siege,  all  London  waiting  for 
him,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  It  gave  him  a 
new  emotion ;  he  felt  proud  and  clean  all 
through.  He  felt,  in  his  own  phrase,  like  as 
though  he  was  going  to  find  something  he'd 
been  hunting  for  for  years  and  forgotten. 

One  would  like  to  know  more,  perhaps,  for 
it  might  help  us  to  live,  and  teach  us  some- 
thing of  pity.  But  it  is  not  to  be  known  ; 
and,  after  all,  these  were  the  little  moments 
of  their  lives,  sacred  to  themselves.  One 
can  conjecture  what  passed — the  terribly  in- 
spired things  that  were  said,  the  ridiculously 
tragic  things  that  were  done.  One  guesses 

130 


Beryl  and  the  Croucher 

that  the  Croucher  stood  mazed  and  dumb 
and  blustering  with  gesture  as  Beryl  stretched 
impassioned  hands  to  him  and  screamed  that 
she  loved  him,  had  loved  him  for  years,  as  he 
went  conqueringly  about  Limehouse,  and  that 
she  had  fired  the  house  that  they  might  die 
together. 

And  one  knows  what  happened  in  the  last 
three  minutes,  for  the  wide  window  fell,  and 
those  below  saw  clearly.  The  front  of  the 
house  was  a  mouth  of  flame.  The  troops 
and  police  closed  in.  A  fire  engine  jangled 
insanely  at  the  end  of  Pekin  Street.  People 
shouted.  People  screamed.  And  they  heard 
Beryl  Hermione  Maud  speak. 

"  Open  the  door.  It'll  be  over  quicker. 
Kiss  me,  Croucher." 

They  saw  the  Croucher  open  the  door  and 
spring  again  to  her  side,  as  an  octopus  of  fire 
writhed  upon  them.  A  police  officer  yelled 
obscure  advice.  A  fireman  dashed  forward 
and  grew  suddenly  frantic,  for  though  every- 
thing was  at  hand,  nothing  could  be  done. 
The  nearest  hydrant  was  many  yards  away, 
and  the  engine  had  to  make  a  circuit.  Even 
the  pressmen  were  momentarily  awed. 

Beryl  flung  furious  arms  about  her  boy, 
and  again  was  heard  to  speak. 

131 


'  You  afraid  ?  ' 

"  Wiv  you  ?  Christ  Almighty,  no.  But 
...  oh  ...  you  .  .  .  young  .  .  .  wonderful 
.  .  .  ought  to  live.  'Tain't  fair.  It's  bloody. 
You  ain't  had  your  time  .  .  .  and  you  ain't 
done  nothing  wrong.  I  deserve  what  I  got, 
but  .  .  .  Steady — it's  coming  now." 

They  saw  him  pull  her  back  on  his  arm. 
They  saw  him  put  a  large  hand  over  her 
mouth  and  drag  her  where  the  smoke  rolled. 


4( 
U 
(t 

It 


Easy — hoses  !  " 

Stir  up,  damyeh.    Lively,  there." 
Finished  with  engine." 
Stand  clear,  dammit,  stand  clear.     Sal- 
vage up." 

"  Take  report,  Simpson.    Smart  now.    Two 
bodies  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  dammit,  do  stand  clear  1 " 

a 


The  Sign  of  the  Lamp 


HERE,  O  hearts  that  beat  with  mine, 
is  the  saddest  of  all  tales.     It  is  the 
tale  of  the  breaking  of  a  man's  faith 
in   woman.     A  thousand  arrows  over  their 
places  of  slumber.  .  .  . 

It  was  on  the  Bund  of  Shanghai  that  the 
father  of  Sway  Lim  had  said  these  words  to 
him  :  "  Son,  mistrust  all  white  women ;  they 
are  but  pale  devils  ;  they  shall  ensnare  you." 

But  Lim  had  not  listened ;  and  it  was 
Pgppy  Sturdish,  of  Limehouse  and  Poplar, 
who  proved  to  him  that  his  father  spoke 
truth.  Poppy  was  fair  in  the  eyes  of  a 
Chinaman ;  she  was  an  anaemic  slip  of  a  girl, 
with  coarse  skin  and  mean  mouth,  a  frightened 
manner  and  a  defiant  glance.  She  had 
scarce  any  friends,  for  she  was  known  to  be 
a  copper's  nark ;  thus  came  the  fear  in  her 
step  and  the  challenge  in  her  eyes.  Often 
she  had  blown  the  gaff  on  the  secret  games 
of  Chinatown,  for  she  spoke  Cantonese  and 
a  little  Swahili  and  some  Hindustani,  and 
could  rustle  it  with  the  best  of  them ;  and 
it  was  her  skill  and  shrewdness  in  directing 
the  law  to  useful  enterprises,  such  as  the 
raiding  of  wicked  houses,  that  caused  her  to 
be  known  in  all  local  stations  and  courts  as 
the  Chinese  Poppy. 

135 


Limehouse  Nights 


She  lived  in  the  tactfully  narrow  Poplar 
High  Street,  that  curls  its  nasty  length 
from  Limehouse  to  Black  wall,  and  directly 
opposite  her  cottage  was  the  loathly  lodging 
of  Sway  Lim — one  room,  black  and  smelly 
with  dirt — next  the  home  of  the  sailors  of 
Japan.  From  his  open  window  he  could  see 
into  the  room  of  the  desirable  Poppy,  and  by 
day  and  evening  he  would  sit  there,  watching 
her  movements,  and  listening  with  delight 
to  her  chief  charm — that  voice  of  hers  that 
wailed  in  your  heart  long  since  it  had  ceased 
to  wail  in  your  ears.  She  was  a  bad 
girl,  mean  and  treacherous ;  everybody  knew 
that ;  but  she  was  young  and  very  pale  ; 
so  that  Sway  Lim,  wet-lipped,  would  gloat 
upon  her  from  his  window.  Sometimes  he 
would  pluck  at  his  plaintive  fiddle,  and  make 
a  song  for  her.  Over  the  sad,  yellow  evening 
his  voice  would  float  in  an  old  Malayan 
chanty  : 

"  Love  is  kind  to  the  least  of  men.  .  .  . 
Eee-awa  1     Eee-awa  1 " 

But  a  little  while,  and  she  had  consented 
to  walk  with  Lim,  and  to  visit  the  Queen's 
Theatre,  and  to  take  drinks — double  gins—- 
at the  Blue  Lantern.  From  him  she  accepted 

136 


The  Sign  of  the  Lamp 

brooches  and  rings  wherewith  to  deck  the 
beauty  of  her  twenty-five  years ;  and  when 
she  questioned  him  whence  he  had  the 
money  for  these  things,  he  told  her  that  he 
played  fan-tan  at  the  house  of  Ho  Ling. 
This  he  did  either  not  knowing  or  not  caring 
that  Poppy  was  a  copper's  nark,  and  was 
under  the  sharp  thumb  of  an  inspector.  He 
talked  to  Poppy  as  he  had  talked  to  none 
outside  his  native  land.  He  told  her  of  his 
home,  of  his  childhood,  of  his  prolific  and 
wonderful  parent,  who  had  twelve  mighty 
sons.  He  talked  of  a  land  of  lilies  and  soft 
blue  nights  which  he  had  left  that  he  might 
adventure  in  strange  countries,  and  see  the 
beauties  of  the  white  girls  of  other  lands, 
and  learn  great  things,  as  befitted  the  first 
son  of  a  proud  house.  He  told  her  how  well 
he  played  fan-tan,  where  he  played  it,  and 
at  what  times,  how  many  tricks  he  had 
acquired,  and  the  heap  plenty  money  he  had 
made.  And  he  sang  to  her :  Yao  chien  wo 
ngai  tzu  nu. 

All  these  things  he  told  her  in  successive 
sweet  evenings  of  June,  when  Limehouse  was 
a  city  of  rose  and  silver,  and  the  odour  of 
exotic  spices  lured  every  sense  to  the  secret 
amiable  delights  of  the  pillow.  All  these 

137 


Lime/iouse  Nights 


things  he  told  her ;  yet  was  he  surprised 
when  one  night  there  came  a  knocking  at 
the  lower  door  of  the  house  of  Ho  Ling,  and 
a  knocking  at  the  back  door  of  the  house  of 
Ho  Ling,  and  a  knocking  at  the  upper  door 
of  the  house  of  Ho  Ling,  and  the  ominously 
casual  entrance  of  burly  gentlemen  in  racing 
overcoats,  bowler  hats,  and  large  boots.  He 
was  surprised  when  he  was  hauled  away  to  a 
station,  and  detained  for  the  night  in  the 
cells,  and  taken  thence  to  Thames  Police 
Court.  Was  he  surprised  when  he  saw  the 
Chinese  Poppy  in  court,  chatting  affably 
with  the  most  important-looking  gentleman 
in  racing  overcoat  and  bowler  hat  ?  He  was 
not.  His  heart  broke  within  him,  and  all 
emotion  died.  Tears  came  to  his  throat,  but 
not  to  his  eyes,  so  that  when  the  interpreter 
questioned  him,  he  could  make  no  answer ; 
his  dignity  dropped  from  him ;  he  could  but 
glare  and  mumble.  "  I  loved  her,"  his  heart 
cried  silently ;  "  I  loved  her,  and  she  betrayed 
me.  Treachery.  Treachery."  And  his  com- 
panions in  the  dock,  who,  too,  had  warned 
him  against  the  white  girl,  wagged  wise, 
condemnatory  heads  that  would  have  de- 
clared :  "  We  told  you  so." 

His  heart  was  broken  by  a  white  barbarian 
138 


The  Sign  of  the  Lamp 

devil  of  a  girl ;  and  he  addressed  himself 
forthwith,  quietly  and  tenderly,  to  vengeance. 
He  paid  his  fine,  and  those  of  his  companions, 
for  he  alone  had  sufficient  money  to  save 
them  from  prison ;  and  then  he  went  home 
to  his  chamber,  walking  to  a  monotonous 
march  of  :  "  Treachery.  Treachery."  As  he 
turned  into  Poplar  High  Street  he  came 
upon  Poppy,  walking  with  a  beefy  youth, 
who  glowered  and  looked  very  strong.  As 
Poppy  passed,  she  lifted  a  slim,  white  hand, 
smacked  the  face  of  Sway  Lim  and,  with 
delicate,  cruel  fingers,  pulled  the  nose  of 
Sway  Lim. 

It  was  enough.  If  a  broken  heart  had 
not  been  enough,  then  this  assault  had 
crowned  it.  His  holy  of  holies,  his  personal 
dignity,  his  nose,  had  been  degraded.  All 
the  wrath  of  his  fathers  foamed  in  his  blood. 
All  the  tears  of  the  ages  rushed  over  his 
heart.  Innumerable  little  agonies  scorched 
his  flesh.  Silently,  swiftly,  he  crouched 
into  himself  as  a  tortoise  into  its  shell, 
and,  followed  by  the  brute  laughter  of  the 
beefy  youth,  he  slipped  by  dark  corners 
away. 

Once  in  his  chamber,  he  bowed  himself 
before  the  joss,  and  burned  many  prayer 

139 


Limehouse  Nights 


papers  that  the  powers  might  be  propitiated 

and  pleased  to  forward  his  schemes. 

•  •••••• 

Now  it  was  not  long  before  the  gentle,  wet 
lips  of  Sway  Lim  had  won  from  other  lips, 
less  gentle,  but  well  moistened  with  beer  and 
gin,  certain  things  good  to  be  known  con- 
cerning Poppy  Sturdish,  or  Chinese  Poppy. 
He  learnt  that  her  heart  and  the  beautiful 
body  of  her,  loaded  with  infinite  pale  graces 
that  never  a  yellow  man  might  discover,  had 
been  freely  rendered  to  another ;  not  to  the 
Inspector,  but  to  a  greater  personage  of 
Poplar  :  none  other  than  the  beefy  youth, 
Hunk  Bottles. 

Hunk  Bottles  was  not  a  good  man.  The 
life  he  led  was  not  clean.  He  robbed  and 
bashed.  It  was  rumoured  that  he  had  done 
worse  deeds,  too,  by  night ;  but,  as  the  leader 
of  the  Hunk  Bottles  Gang,  and  the  sower 
of  strife  among  the  labourers,  white,  black, 
brown  and  yellow,  of  the  docks,  he  was  a 
fellow  of  some  consequence,  and  there  were 
times  when  the  police  looked  steadily  in  the 
opposite  direction  when  he  approached. 

But  there  was  at  last  a  day  when  public 
sentiment  demanded  that  all  local  and  per- 
sonal considerations  be  set  aside,  and  that 

140 


The  Sign  of  the  Lamp 

Hunk  Bottles  be  apprehended.  For  it  had 
come  to  pass  that  murder  had  been  done  in 
Chinatown,  in  a  nasty  house  near  Pennyfields, 
where  men  played  cards  and  other  games, 
and  sometimes  quarrelled  among  themselves  ; 
and  the  police  sought  the  murderer  and 
found  him  not.  Only  they  found  in  the  hand 
of  the  murdered  man  half  the  sleeve  of  a 
coat :  a  coat  of  good  material,  a  material 
which  a  local  tailor  recognised  because  he 
used  very  little  of  it,  and  had  but  two 
customers  for  it.  One  was  his  own  father ; 
the  other  was  Hunk  Bottles. 

But  Hunk  Bottles  had  flown,  and  'none 
knew  whither.  Yet  were  there  two  who 
could  have  made  very  shrewd  guesses.  One 
of  these  sat,  with  a  broken  heart,  evening 
by  evening,  at  his  window,  watching  the 
opposite  window,  where  sometimes  a  soft 
shape  would  dance  across  the  blind,  and 
dance  with  trampling  feet  upon  his  poor 
heart.  Sometimes  the  door  would  open,  and 
she  would  go  forth,  and  he  would  watch  her, 
and  when  she  was  gone,  he  would  continue 
to  watch  the  way  she  was  gone,  and  would 
sit  until  she  returned.  Sometimes  her 
window  would  open,  too,  and  she  would 
shoot  a  spiteful  head  through  it,  and  cry  to 


Limehouse  Nights 


him,  in  her  own  rich  tongue,  that  all  yellow 
swine  were  offal  to  her.  This  man  knew 
where  Hunk  Bottles  might  be  found,  for  he 
had  seen  Hunk  Bottles  creep  to  the  opposite 
door,  at  the  dark  hour  of  two  in  the  morning, 
and  he  had  seen  a  lowered  light,  had  heard 
the  crackle  of  a  whisper,  and  the  sweet  hiss 
of  stormy  kisses  showered  upon  the  white 
body  of  Poppy,  and  her  murmurous  defiance  : 
"  I  won't  give  you  up.  Never.  Never.  Never. 
Take  me  dyin'  oath  I  won't.  Not  if  they 
kill  me,  Hunk.  'Ope  I'm  in  'ell  first." 

Very  swiftly  the  story  spread  through 
Limehouse  from  gentle  Chinese  lips,  and  it 
came,  in  less  than  an  hour,  to  the  police 
station.  Fifteen  minutes  later  the  important 
gentleman  in  racing  overcoat  and  bowler  hat 
called  upon  Poppy,  and  challenged  her.  And 
when  he  had  challenged  her,  he  charged  her 
with  a  mission.  At  first  she  was  truculent ; 
then  sullen ;  then  complacent.  She  took 
her  dyin'  oath  that  she  didn't  know  where 
Hunk  was.  She  only  knew  that  he  had  been 
to  her  twice,  very  late  at  night.  She  did  not 
know  where  he  came  from,  or  where  he  went. 
She  was  in  deadly  fear  of  him.  Of  course 
she  ought  to  have  give  him  up,  but  how 
cculd  she  ?  He'd  split  her  throat.  He  carried 

142 


The  Sign  of  the  Lamp 

a  gun  and  knives.  He'd  do  her  in  at  once  if 
he  suspected.  What  could  she  do  ? 

They  talked  .  .  .  and  talked.  The  In- 
spector's large  hand  moved  emphatically, 
patting  the  table  as  he  made  certain  points. 

"  Don't  try  to  tell  me,"  he  urged,  in  the 
off-hand  way  of  the  police  officer.  "  I  know 
all  about  it.  You  do  what  you  got  to  do,  and 
you  needn't  be  frightened  of  nobody.  And 
you  better  do  it,  I  give  you  my  word,  me 
gel ;  I  got  you  fixed  good  and  tight.  So 
watch  out.  And  don't  forget  nothing.  Now 
then  .  .  .  what's  your  orders  ?  >: 

In  a  dull,  cold  voice  Poppy  repeated  a 
formula.  "  Put  the  lamp  in  the  window, 
with  the  red  shade  on.  When  I  got  his  gun 
and  his  two  knives  off  him,  I  take  the  shade 
away.  Then  you  comes  in." 

"  That's  it.  Why,  it's  as  easy.  .  .  .  Just 
a  little  lovey-lovey.  Kinder  lead  him  on. 
Then  sit  him  down  on  that  there  sofa,  and 
love  him  some  more.  Then  he'll  take  off  his 
belt,  and  other  things.  When  he's  got  his 
coat  oil,  with  the  gun  in  it,  get  him  over  this 
side  away  from  it.  Never  mind  about  the 
knives;  he  won't  get  a  chanst  to  use  them. 
Then  you  put  your  hand  up,  to  straighten  your 
hair,  like,  and  knock  the  shade  off,  accidental. 

143 


Limehouse  Night\ 


"  Now  mind  yeh.  .  .  .  No  hanky-panky. 
Else  I'll  have  to  do  it  on  yeh,  as  I  ought  to 
have  done  years  ago.  So  mind  yeh.  I  ain't 
standing  any  khybosh.  Not  in  these  nor  any 
other  trousers.  You  do  what  you're  told, 
and  things '11  be  all  the  better  for  you  for  a 
long  time  to  come.  We  shall  be  outside  from 
now  till  he  comes.  So  don't  try  to  slip  out 
and  bung  him  the  word.  It  won't  be  no 
good.  And  above  all,  don't  try  to  get  gay 
with  me.  See  ?  Ever  read  your  Bible  ? 
Read  it  now,  'fore  he  comes.  There's  a  yarn 
about  a  chap  called  Samson,  and  his  gel 
Delilah.  Tells  you  just  how  to  do  it !  " 

He  had  just  snapped  his  last  phrase  when 
there  came  to  both  of  them,  very  sharp  and 
clear,  the  wailing  of  a  Malayan  chanty  : 

'*  Love  is  kind  to  the  least  of  men.  .  .  . 
Eee-awa  1     Eee-awa ! " 

Instinctively  both  looked  up,  and  then  they 
saw  that  the  window  was  wide  to  the  street, 
and  at  the  opposite  open  window  was  a 
yellow  face  and  head  which  blinked  at  them 
impassively  under  the  hard  morning  light, 
and  continued  its  melancholy  entertainment. 
A  few  long  hours  followed,  and  then  came 
Hunk  Bottles,  perilously,  slipperily.  He  was 

144 


The  Sign  of  the  Lamp 

whisked  into  the  house  as  by  a  gust  of  wind, 
while  in  several  grim  corners  several  gentle- 
men in  racing  overcoats  and  bowler  hats, 
and  one  in  uniform,  grinned  quietly.  For 
now  it  was  Poppy's  charge  to  deliver  the 
boy  to  his  tormentors,  and  she  should  very 
terribly  cop  out  if  she  failed  in  that  charge. 

That,  however,  was  exactly  what  she 
meant  to  do.  He  had  come,  her  own,  very 
own  Hunk ;  and  she  must  get  him  away. 
Hunk  and  herself  would  escape  or  die  together ; 
and,  if  they  died,  several  gentlemen  in  racing 
overcoats  and  bowler  hats  should  die  with 
them.  There  was  a  back  entrance  to  her 
little  house.  The  Inspector  had  not  thought 
to  post  men  there ;  after  all,  she  was  a 
copper's  nark,  and  he  assumed  that  he  had 
fairly  frightened  her  by  his  instructions  that 
morning.  He  had  overlooked  the  fact  that 
Poppy  was  a  London  girl,  and  that  she  loved 
Hunk  Bottles.  He  had  forgotten  that  the 
state  of  love  is  so  very  near  to  the  state  of 
death. 

The  moment  Hunk  was  in  her  room,  she 
spoke  swift  words  to  him.  She  told  him  of 
his  peril ;  she  told  him  of  the  instructions 
given  to  her.  She  repeated  her  oath  of 
allegiance,  and  detailed  her  plan  for  escape. 
«  145 


Limehouse  Nights 


"They'll  have  to  kill  me  first,  Hunk. 
Sop  me  gob  they  will.  I'm  never  going  back 
on  yeh.  Never  !  "  And  she  flung  hot  little 
arms  about  him,  letting  him  play  with  her  as 
he  would  while  he  urged  her  to  pull  herself 
together.  When  she  had  finished  assaulting 
his  scrubby  face  with  wet  kisses,  she  asked 
him  if  he  had  got  his  gun  and  his  two  knives, 
and  he  assured  her  that  he  had,  as  well  as  a 
knuckle-duster.  And  she  asked  him  if  he 
would  make  a  fight  for  it  if  they  were  caught, 
and  he  said  he  would,  and  groaned  aloud 
when  she  forced  him  to  promise  that,  if  the 
fight  were  lost,  he  would  put  her  out  before 
the  cops  could  get  her.  They  embraced 
again,  and  he  sobbed  soft  things  to  her 
beauty  and  her  faithfulness. 

Then  she  took  the  lamp  from  the  table,  set 
the  red  shade  very  firmly  upon  it,  and  placed 
it  in  the  window. 

"  Half-a-mo',  Hunk,"  she  whispered.  "  I'll 
just  slip  away  to  the  back,  and  make  sure 
all's  clear."  She  turned  her  face  up  to  him 
as  she  retreated,  and  its  pallor  shone  as 
though  some  sudden  lamp  of  life  had  been 
lit  within  her,  and  a  lonely  Chinky  at  the 
opposite  window  groaned  in  his  heart  that 
no  woman  had  ever  given  such  a  look  to  him. 

146 


The  Sign  of  the  Lamp 

But  his  face  remained  impassive,  and,  the 
moment  she  was  gone  from  the  room,  he 
thrust  across  the  narrow  street  a  stiff,  straight 
wire  such  as  is  used  for  fishing  on  the  Great 
Yellow  River,  and  so  finely  drawn  that 
nothing  could  be  seen  of  it  in  the  road  below. 

Of  a  sudden  the  red  shade  of  the  lamp 
was  twitched  off. 

Swiftly  from  their  corners  came  several 
gentlemen  in  racing  overcoats  and  bowler 
hats,  one  of  whom  carried  a  key.  The  door 
of  the  house  was  opened,  and  they  dis- 
appeared. Ten  seconds  later  they  stood 
before  Hunk  Bottles,  and  Sway  Lim  at  his 
window,  breathing  the  scents  of  manioc  and 
pickled  eggs,  saw  them  very  clearly.  He  saw 
the  sudden  dismay  on  the  face  of  the  prisoner, 
and  heard  the  sharp  cry  :  "  Copped,  be 
Christ !  "  And  then  :  "  So  she  went  to 
fetch  yeh,  the  bitch  !  " 

He  saw  him  drop  both  hands  in  a  gesture 
of  surrender,  and  step  forward.  At  the  same 
moment,  in  the  doorway  appeared  the  pale, 
anguished  figure  of  Poppy.  She  grasped  the 
situation,  and  a  spasm  in  her  face  showed 
that  she  grasped  the  awful  construction  that 
Hunk  had  placed  upon  it.  She  raised  a  pro- 
testing hand.  Her  lips  moved  as  if  to  speak. 

M7 


Limehouse  Nights 


But  Hunk,  his  face  on  fire  with  fury,  grief 
and  despair  at  this  assumed  betrayal  by 
the  woman  he  loved,  waved  her  coldly  away. 
He  took  his  gun  from  his  pocket,  and  handed 
it  to  the  Inspector,  who  had  held  him  covered. 
Poppy  darted  forward,  but  was  dragged  back. 
She  screamed.  Then,  mercifully,  she  fainted  ; 
and  did  not  hear,  across  the  Cruel  night,  a 
ripple  of  cold  Oriental  laughter  and  a  voice 
that  wailed  an  old  Malayan  chanty  : 

"  Love  is  kind  to  the  least  of  men.  .  ,  . 

Eee-a  vva  1     Eee-awa  1 " 


Tai  Fu  and  Pansy  Greers 


N"  O W  it  came  to  pass  that  Mohammed  All 
stood  upon  the  steps  of  the  Asiatics' 
Home,  and  swore — not  as  you  and  I 
swear,  but  richly,  with  a  feeling  for  colour 
and  sting,  strong  in  the  vivid  adjective.  He 
swore  in  a  bastard  dialect  compounded  of 
Urdu,  Chinese  and  Cocknese,  and  a  swear 
skilfully  dished  up  from  these  ingredients  is 
— well,  have  you  ever  put  cayenne  on  your 
mustard  ?  Mohammed  Ali  was  very  cross, 
for  his  girl,  his  white  girl,  Pansy  Greers,  had 
given  him  the  chuck,  and  for  the  reason 
which  has  brought  many  a  good  fellow  the 
chuck — namely,  lack  of  money. 

Pansy  was  in  trouble,  and  wanted  money, 
of  which  he  had  none,  for  he  was  a  destitute 
Oriental.  Often  they  had  gone  about  to- 
gether, and  in  his  way  he  had  loved  her.  The 
girls  of  this  quarter  have  a  penchant  for 
coloured  boys,  based,  perhaps,  on  the  attrac- 
tion of  repulsion.  However,  now  that 
Mohammed  Ali  had  failed  her  when  put  to  the 
test,  he  was  told  that  he  need  not  again  ask 
her  to  walk  through  Poplar  Gardens.  So 
he  stood  on  the  steps,  and  swore,  while 

Pansy 

Well,  Pansy  was  in  trouble,  and  this  was 
the  way  of  it. 


Lime/iouse  Nights 


Pansy  lived  in  Pekin  Street.  About  her 
window  the  wires  wove  a  network,  and  the 
beat  of  waters,  as  they  slapped  about  the 
wharves,  was  day  and  night  in  her  ears.  At 
evenings  there  came  to  her  the  wail  of  the 
Pennyfields  Orient,  or  the  hysterical  chort- 
lings  of  an  organ  with  music-hall  ditties. 
She  worked  at  Bennett's  Cocoa  Rooms  in 
East  India  Dock  Road ;  and  life  for  her,  as 
for  most  of  her  class,  was  just  a  dark  house 
in  a  dark  street.  From  the  morning's  flush 
to  the  subtle  evening,  she  stood  at  steaming 
urns,  breathing  an  air  limp  with  the  smell 
of  food,  and  serving  unhealthy  eatables  to 
cabmen,  draymen,  and,  occasionally,  a  yellow 
or  black  or  brown  sailor. 

She  was  not  pretty.  The  curse  of  labour 
was  on  her  face,  and  she  carried  no  delicacies 
wherewith  to  veil  her  maidenhood.  From 
dawn  to  dusk,  from  spring  to  spring,  she  had 
trodden  the  golden  hours  in  this  routine,  and 
knew,  yet  scarcely  felt,  the  slow  sucking  of 
her  ripening  powers.  Twenty-one  she  was ; 
yet  life  had  never  sung  to  her.  Toil,  and  again 
toil,  was  all  she  knew — toil  on  a  weakened  body, 
improperly  fed ;  for  your  work-girl  of  the  East 
seldom  knows  how  to  nourish  herself.  Pansy 
lived,  for  the  most  part,  on  tea  and  sweets. 

152 


Tai  Fu  and  Pansy  Greers 

She  was  a  good  girl.  Others  of  her  set 
found  escape  and  joys  in  many  crude  festivities 
— music  halls,  "  hops,"  and  brute  embraces 
and  kisses  and  intimacy  with  the  boys.  But 
she  cared  for  none  of  these.  Her  friends 
allowed  that  she  had  no  go,  and  hinted,  with 
harsh  indecencies,  that  if  the  truth  were  told 
your  quiet  ones  were  often  worst.  Her 
Sundays  she  spent  tucked  in  bed  with  East 
Lynne  or  Forget-me-Not;  but,  although  her 
little  head  gloated  on  gilded  sin,  she  had 
never  once  tasted  it,  for  she  loved  but  one 
human  thing — her  blowsy  mother.  Her 
mother,  too,  loved  but  one  thing — not  a 
human  thing,  but  a  bottled  article — gin. 

So,  too  soon,  her  mother  came  to  die. 

Pansy  came  home  from  the  shop  one  night ; 
climbed  the  stark  stairs  to  their  room ; 
stopped  to  chi-ike  the  half-naked  children 
playing  on  the  landing.  Murmuring  a  rag- 
time melody,  she  slouched  in,  and  .  .  . 

The  room  was  dark,  and  she  felt  a  sudden 
nameless  chill. 

She  lit  the  lamp.    Mother  was  dead. 

Those  that  live,  as  Pansy  did,  all  their  days 
in  physical  contact  with  the  brutality  of 
things  become  too  broken  for  complaint  or 
remonstrance.  This  shock  left  Pansy  just 

153 


Limehouse  Nig/its 


cold  and  numb,  acceptant.  It  never  occurred 
to  her  that  hers  was  a  hard  lot,  that  life  was 
not  what  it  ought  to  be ;  vaguely  she  had 
stumbled  on  the  truth  of  going  on,  whatever 
happened.  So  she  went  on.  One  thing 
alone  spun  dully  on  her  brain,  apart  from  the 
grief  of  losing  her  one  pal,  and  that  was — 
how  to  provide  a  funeral  such  as  mother  had 
always  desired.  For  mother,  after  many 
years  of  gin,  was  sentimental.  She  wanted 
to  be  buried  outside  the  parish,  with  her 
man.  She  wanted  a  brave  show.  A  real 
handsome  funeral,  don't  forget.  Feathers, 
flowers,  pall,  and  a  nice  sit-down  for  the 
guests  afterwards.  When,  however,  you 
have  paid  the  rent,  bought  food  and  dressed 
yourself,  there  isn't  much  to  save  for  burial 
out  of  eight-and-sixpence  a  week.  Neigh- 
bours, who  are  always  friends  in  Poplar, 
brought  their  little  gifts  of  love ;  what  they 
had,  they  gave ;  but  that  was  still  a  long 
way  from  a  really  swell  planting. 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Pansy  prayed.  It 
is  seldom  that  they  pray  about  the  docks  : 
the  bread-and-butter  race  is  a  hard  one,  and 
the  pace  is  cruel,  and  any  slackening  means 
disqualification,  and  praying,  as  Pansy  had 
said,  real  good  praying,  takes  time  and 

154 


Tat  Fu  and  Pansy  Greers 

thought.  But  her  praying  was  made,  and 
sharp  and  clear  there  came  to  her  an  answer. 
She  went  to  Mohammed  Ali,  and  Mohammed 
All,  as  recorded,  failed  her.  But  .  .  .  she 
remembered  Tai  Fu.  She  remembered  a 
creeping,  scrofulous  thing  that  had  once  or 
twice  come  to  the  Cocoa  Rooms,  and  leered 
damply  upon  her.  Now,  like  so  many  of  the 
settlers  in  the  Chinese  quarter,  Tai  Fu  had 
money — lots  of  it.  How  they  make  their 
money  in  London  is  a  mystery,  but  make  it 
they  do,  probably  at  the  fan-tan  table  when 
their  flush  compatriots  come  off  the  boats ;  and 
Tai  Fu  was  reputed  to  be  one  of  the  richest, 
though  he  lived  sparsely.  Perhaps  he  was 
saving  so  as  to  realise  a  cherished  dream  of 
returning  to  his  native  river  town,  and  spend- 
ing his  later  days  in  tranquillity  and  some 
magnificence.  Certainly  he  spent  little,  and 
his  pen-yen  was  his  one  expense. 

He  was  a  dreadful  doper.  Sometimes  he 
would  chew  betel  nut  or  bhang  or  hashish, 
but  mostly  it  was  a  big  jolt  of  yen-shi,  for 
he  got  more  value  from  that.  He  was  a  con- 
noisseur, and  used  his  selected  yen-shi  and 
yen-hok  as  an  Englishman  uses  a  Cabanas. 

The  first  slow  inhalations  brought  him 
nothing,  but,  as  he  continued,  there  would 

J55 


Limehouse  Nights 


come  a  sweet,  purring  warmth  about  the 
limbs.  This  effect  was  purely  physical :  the 
brain  was  left  cold  and  awake,  the  thought 
uncoloured.  But  slowly,  as  the  draws  grew 
deeper,  the  details  of  the  room  would  fade, 
there  would  be  a  soft  thunder  in  the  ears,  his 
eyes  would  close,  and  about  the  head  gathered 
a  cloud  of  lilac,  at  first  opaque,  but  gradually 
lightening  in  consistency  till  it  became  but 
a  shy  gauze.  Then,  with  all  control  of  the 
faculties  in  suspension,  out  of  the  nebula 
would  swim  infinite  delicacies  of  phantasy 
and  rhythm,  of  the  ethereal  reality  of  a  rose- 
leaf.  There  would  be  faces,  half  revealed 
and  half  secret,  under  torrents  of  loaded 
curls ;  faces,  now  dusky,  now  strangely 
white ;  faces  pure  and  haunting,  and  faces 
of  creeping  sin,  floating  without  movement, 
fading  and  appearing.  Faces  sad  almost  to 
tears ;  then  laughing,  languishing  faces ; 
then  cold,  profound,  animal  faces — the  faces 
of  women,  for  the  most  part,  but  now  and 
then  faces  of  children  and  indeterminate 
faces. 

As  the  stupor  developed,  it  would  bring 
music  to  the  ears,  and  a  sense  of  the  glory  of 
the  immediate  moment,  when  every  tissue  of 
the  body  would  be  keyed  to  a  pitch  of  ecstasy 

156 


Tai  Fu  and  Pansy  Greers 

almost  too  sweet  to  be  borne.  Then,  with  a 
squall  of  brass  in  the  ears,  the  colour  would 
change,  and  this  time  it  would  hold  stranger 
allurements.  The  whole  dream,  indeed,  built 
itself  as  one  builds  a  sumptuous  banquet 
of  the  blending  of  many  flavours  and 
essences,  each  course  a  subtle,  unmarked 
progression  on  its  predecessor. 

The  last  stage  of  the  dope-dream  would  be 
a  chaos  of  music  and  a  frenzy  of  frock  and 
limb  and  curl  against  delirious  backgrounds. 
Always  the  background  was  the  Causeway, 
Orientalised.  The  little  cafe"  would  leap  and 
bulge  to  a  white  temple,  the  chimney  against 
the  sky  would  sprout  into  a  pagoda,  and  there 
would  be  the  low  pulsing  of  tom-toms.  The 
street  would  sway  itself  out  of  all  proportion, 
and  grotesque  staircases  would  dip  to  it  from 
the  dim-starred  night ;  and  it  would  be  rilled 
with  pale  girls,  half-garbed  in  white  and 
silver,  and  gold  and  blue. 

Tai  Fu  had  never  known  a  white  girl.  He 
was  a  loathly  creature,  old  and  fat  and 
steamy,  and  none  of  the  girls  would  have  him, 
for  all  his  wealth.  His  attitude  to  the  world 
was  the  cold,  pitiless  attitude  of  the  overfed 
and  the  over-wined.  But  it  was  of  him  that 
Pansy  thought  in  her  trouble,  and  when  he 

157 


Limehousc  Nights 


called  at  the  cocoa  shop,  she,  sick-limbed  and 
eyes  a-blear,  but  still  working,  since  there 
was  nothing  else  she  could  do,  and  it  killed 
thought — she  told  him  her  tale.  He  grinned, 
loose-lipped,  with  anticipation  of  delight. 
What  she  asked  him,  in  effect,  was  :  would 
he  lend  her  the  money  for  the  funeral  ?  And 
Tai  Fu  said  at  once  that  he  would,  if,  that  is, 
she  .  .  . 

Well,  she  was  a  good  girl,  but  she  loved  her 
mother  as  she  loved  nothing  else,  human  or 
celestial.  A  dying  wish  was  to  her  more 
sacred  than  a  social  form. 

She  would.  She  did.  Tai  Fu  got  the 
white  girl  he  had  only  known  in  hop-smoke. 

She  went  to  him  that  night  at  his  house  in 
the  Causeway.  He  opened  the  door  himself, 
and  flung  a  low-lidded,  wine-whipped  glance 
about  her  that  seemed  to  undress  her  where 
she  stood,  noting  her  fault  and  charm  as  one 
notes  an  animal.  He  did  not  love  her ; 
there  was  no  sentiment  in  this  business. 
Brute  cunning  and  greed  were  in  his  brow, 
and  lust  was  in  his  lips.  He  wanted  her,  and 
he  had  got  her — quite  cheaply,  too. 

She  went  to  him  ;  and  she  came  away  with 
some  gold  pieces.  But  in  her  face  was  a  look 
of  horror  which  she  carries  to-day. 

158 


Tai  Fu  and  Pansv  Greers 

*/ 

What  he  did  to  her  in  the  blackness  of 
that  curtained  room  of  his  had  best  not  be 
imagined.  But  she  came  away  with  a  deep, 
cold  desire  and  determination  to  kill  him — 
and  she  was  not  the  kind  of  girl  who  lightly 
stains  her  finger  with  a  crime  of  that  colour. 
She  came  away  with  bruised  limbs  and  body, 
with  torn  hair,  and  a  face  paled  to  death. 

However,  her  vow  was  kept.  Mother  had 
her  funeral,  which  drew  crowds  from  every- 
where. There  were  pickles  and  ham,  and 
coffee  and  beer  and  tea,  and  plum  cake  and 
jam,  and  flowers  and — oh,  everything  classy. 

The  morning  following  the  impressive  inter- 
ment she  cleared  up  the  litter  in  her  room, 
and  went  to  work  at  the  Cocoa  Rooms. 

"  Sorry,"  said  the  proprietor,  "  but  you 
can't  come  here  no  more.  Sorry.  But 
there's  a  lot  of  talk  going  about.  One  of  the 
Chinks  got  drunk  last  night,  and  has  been 
saying  things ;  and  lots  of  people  seen  you 
go  to  his  house  the  other  night.  Sorry ;  but 
I  kept  you  here,  it'd  smash  me  with  the 
outdoor  trade,  straight.  Sorry.  Here — you 
better  have  your  week's  money.  You'll  easy 
get  something  else,  I  dessay.  Sorry,  but  it's 
more'n  I  dare.  Understand,  doncher  ?  " 

Well,  she  did  not  get  another  job.  All 
159 


Limehouse  Nights 


about  Poplar,  Limehouse  and  St  George's  the 
wretched  story  had  galloped,  for  Tai  Fu  had 
told  what  he  had  done  to  her,  and  it  was  a  tale 
worth  telling.  She  was  a  bad  girl — she  was 
abominable — that  was  clear.  If  she'd  only 
gone  wrong  ordinary,  it  wouldn't  have  been 
so  bad,  but  this  .  .  . 

Cruel  starings  whipped  her  eyes  wherever 
she  went.  Many  came,  curiously,  with  sym- 
pathy, eager  to  know,  and  from  every  side 
she  heard,  hot-eared,  the  low  refrain  :  "  Ah, 
there's  your  quiet  ones  1  Now,  didn't  I  only 
say — eh  ? — don't  that  just  show  ?  " 

She  did  not  get  another  job.  Here  and 
there  she  appealed,  but  in  vain ;  she  was  sent 
about  her  dirty  business. 

"  I'd  help  you  if  I  could,  Pansy,  but  there 
— I  can't.  So  it's  no  good.  I  got  children 
to  keep,  and  if  I  gave  you  a  job  here  you 
know  what  it'd  be.  I'd  lose  business. 
Sorry ;  but  you're  done.  You're  down  and 
out,  me  gel." 

She  was.  And  when  she  realised  that, 
tenser  and  colder  became  the  desire  to  kill 
Tai  Fu.  She  did  not  die.  She  did  not  wish 
to  die.  She  did  not  dissolve  in  self-pity.  It 
was  a  quieter  business ;  the  canker  of  the 
soul.  She  met  a  girl  who  had  sometimes 

160 


Tai  Fu  and  Pansy  Greers 

been  to  the  Cocoa  Rooms,  and  who  was, 
indeed,  watching  for  her,  having  heard  the 
story.  This  friend  gave  her  frocks  and  things 
and  lessons  in  the  art  of  man-leading,  and 
Pansy  began  to  grow  and  to  live  well,  and  to 
have  money.  Before  her  mother's  grave  was 
lit  with  the  cheap  red  clovers,  the  daughter 
was  known  to  fifty  boys  and  many  strange 
beds.  But  never  once  did  her  great  desire 
fade  or  fail.  She  would  kill  Tai  Fu ;  if  not 
now,  then  at  some  good  time  that  should 
appear. 
•  •••••  • 

It  was  the  day  of  the  Feast  of  the  New 
Year,  the  mid-January  celebrations  in  which 
Limehouse  lives  deliriously  for  some  thirty 
hours.  Pennyfields,  the  Causeway  and  West 
India  Dock  Road  were  whipped  to  stormy 
life  with  decorations.  The  windows  shook 
with  flowers.  The  roofs  laughed  with  flags. 
Lanterns  were  looped  from  house  to  house, 
and  ran  from  roof  to  post  in  a  frenzy  of 
Oriental  colour  and  movement. 

In  the  morning  there  was  the  solemn 
procession  with  joss-sticks  to  the  cemetery, 
where  prayers  were  held  over  the  graves  of 
the  Chinese,  and  lamentations  were  carried 
out  in  native  fashion — with  sweet  cakes,  and 


Limehouse  Nights 


whisky,  and  wine,  and  other  delectables,  also 
with  song  and  gesture  and  dance. 

In  the  evening  —  ah  1  —  dancing  in  the 
halls  with  the  girls.  The  glamorous  January 
evening  of  Chinatown — yellow  men,  with 
much  money  to  spend — beribboned,  white 
girls,  gay,  flaunting  and  fond  of  curious  kisses 
— rainbow  lanterns,  now  lit,  and  swaying 
lithely  on  their  strings — noise,  bustle  and 
laughter  of  the  cafes — mad  waste  of  food  and 
drink — all  these  things  touch  the  affair  with 
an  alluring  quality  of  dream.  Surely  the 
girls  may  be  forgiven  if  they  love  on  such  a 
night  and  with  such  people.  Surely  the  sad 
lights  of  the  Scandinavian  Seamen's  Home 
can  have  little  attraction  at  an  hour  like 
this! 

Of  course,  Pansy  was  there.  She  was 
known  now.  She  was  expected.  Not  by 
Tai  Fu.  With  him  she  had  had  no  dealings 
since  the  one  night  of  horror  she  had  spent 
under  his  roof.  But  to-night,  in  the  gay  con- 
fusion of  the  Causeway,  she  came  suddenly 
and  accidentally  against  his  fat,  greasy  figure. 
She  had  apparently  been  jerked  off  her  feet, 
and  fell  against  his  brown  coat.  He  caught 
her.  She  looked  up  and,  although  on  many 
occasions  when  he  had  invited  her  with  a 

162 


Tat  Fu  and  Pansy  Greers 

look  in  the  street  she  had  always  killed  him 
with  a  lip,  she  laughed. 

"  Ullo,  Chinky  dear !  Fancy  falling  into 
your  funny  arms  !  " 

He  ambled,  and  smiled  grotesquely.  A 
small  crowd,  with  fevered  feet,  mad  for  the 
hour,  jostled  and  danced  against  them ;  and 
suddenly  Pansy  caught  an  outstretched  yel- 
low hand  in  one  of  hers,  and,  with  the  other 
circled  about  Tai  Fu's  waist,  commenced  to 
pull  the  bunch  of  them  round  in  a  whirligig. 

The  others  caught  the  spirit  of  it,  and 
round  and  round  they  went,  till  Pansy,  in 
a  hysterical  exhaustion,  dropped  out,  and 
collapsed  •  in  high  laughter  against  a  shop. 
Tai  Fu,  his  pulses  hot  for  her  again,  dropped 
out,  too,  and  moved  to  her  side.  The  others 
slacked  off  in  a  scuffle,  and  one,  noting  Tai  Fu, 
who  was  the  richest  of  them  still,  cried  in 
Cantonese  that  he  should  invite  them  in  and 
play  host.  In  a  shrill  metallic  voice,  Pansy 
seconded  it,  grabbed  Tai  Fu's  arm  and  bullied 
him  into  acceptance ;  and  soon  they  were 
crowding  to  his  upper  room.  The  word  went 
round  that  it  was  open  doors  at  Tai  Fu's,  and 
soon  half  the  Causeway  was  struggling  into 
one  small  room,  snatching  food  and  drink. 

On  the  way  up  the  stairs  Pansy  leaned 
163 


Limehouse  Night* 


heavily  against  Tai  Fu,  sidling,  nestling,  and 
whispering  words  which  he  could  not  catch, 
but  which  sounded  very  sweet.  He  had  his 
guests  seated  and  bade  them  order  from  the 
restaurant  waiter  who  had  followed  what- 
ever they  should  require.  Meantime,  he 
squatted  on  a  cane  mat  and  drew  Pansy  to 
the  cushions  beside  him  ;  and  there  they  sat, 
locked  in  one  another's  arms,  her  curls  on  his 
yellow  neck,  her  skirts  about  his  feet  in  a 
froth  of  petticoat  lace. 

The  fun  lasted  for  hours.  It  seemed  im- 
possible to  tire  the  company.  Were  they  not 
feasting  at  the  expense  of  Tai  Fu,  the  miserly? 
But  an  Oriental  revelry  of  the  cheaper  kind 
is  a  deadly  affair,  and  Pansy  found  it  so. 
The  narcotised  temperaments  of  the  East,  so 
blunted  to  joy  or  sorrow,  catch  a  responsive 
note  only  from  the  loud  and  the  barbaric. 
The  solemn  smokes  swirled  about  the  low 
room,  and  as  it  grew  warmer  and  thicker,  so 
did  the  faces  grow  moister  and  more  pallid, 
so  did  the  sense  of  smell  grow  sharper,  and 
so  did  the  bitter  nightmare,  brooding  over 
the  whole  place,  take  hold  on  Pansy. 

Tai  Fu  was  drinking  whisky,  but  Pansy 
only  sipped  tea.  Her  face,  too,  was  pale  and 
damp,  but  in  that  crowd,  though  now  seared 

164 


Tai  Fu  and  Pansy  Greers 

and  world-weary,  she  was  a  wild  rose. 
Suddenly  she  leaned  heavily  on  her  lover's 
arm,  her  chin  uptilted  to  him.  He  was 
staring  stupidly  across  the  lanterned  apart- 
ment. But  the  gay  insouciance  of  Pansy 
recalled  him,  as  she  lolled  backward,  for  he 
gave  a  sudden  start  and  a  clipped  exclamation. 

She  was  frolicsome  to-night.  "  What's  the 
matter,  old  dear  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Found  a 
pin  ?  A-ah — naughty.  Can't  cuddle  English 
girls  without  finding  a  pin,  somewhere,  Fuey 
dear.  No  rose  without  a  thorn  !  " 

She  languished  against  him,  and  this  time 
he  withdrew  his  arm,  and  fingered  her  neck 
with  his  long  hand,  smiling  idiotically.  She 
pulled  a  bottle  across  the  floor  and  filled  his 
glass.  He  drank  to  her  and,  as  a  fiddler, 
with  a  one-stringed  instrument,  started  a 
crooning  accompaniment,  he  struggled  up 
and  would  have  her  dance.  He  tried  to  help 
her,  but  fell,  a  little  heavily,  and  Pansy  fell 
over  him,  and  there  they  rolled,  to  the  joy 
of  the  company.  Then  Pansy  scrambled  up 
and  danced. 

It  was  a  danse  macabre.  In  that  evil- 
smelling  room,  with  those  secret  faces  peer- 
ing at  her  through  the  reeking  smoke,  she  felt 
sick  with  the  wine  and  the  tumult ;  but  her 

163 


Limehouse  Nights 


lips  laughed,  and  she  danced  merrily,  and 
Tai  Fu  sprawled  and  declared  that  she  was  a 
lovely  girl. 

The  music  stopped.  Pansy  stopped  danc- 
ing and  swooned  in  a  seductive  exhaustion 
into  his  big  arms. 

"  Oh — damn — the — pins  !  "  he  said,  pick- 
ing each  English  word  with  care,  while  he 
dragged  Pansy  closer  and  sprawled  over  the 
cushions.  He  drank  more  whisky,  and  again 
good  humour  prevailed,  and  had  Pansy  heard 
the  comments  that  were  made  about  her  she 
would,  in  spite  of  her  profession,  have 
shrivelled. 

Now  Tai  Fu's  hands  became  more  familiar, 
and  Pansy  sportively  rebuked  him  with  an 
assumption  of  shocked  virtue.  He  messed 
his  fingers  in  her  hair  and  drew  her  closer, 
pricking  his  arm  with  every  embrace,  while 
she  reminded  him  that  if  you  play  with  a  bee 
you  sometimes  find  the  sting.  But  he  was 
by  now  too  drunk  to  feel  mere  pin-pricks,  and 
he  rolled  his  great  carcass  about  with  languid 
laughter. 

Later,  he  drank  more  whisky,  and  then 
began  to  look  sick.  He  even  excused  him- 
self, as  feeling  faint,  and  got  up.  Pansy 
clung  to  him. 

166 


Tai  Fu  and  Pansy  Green 

"  Don't  go,  old  boy.  Here — listen — don't 
send  me  away  hungry.  Aren't  we  going  to 
have  a  little  .  .  .  love,  eh,  dearie  ?  " 

But  he  thrust  her  off.  His  jaw  hung.  He 
looked  incipiently  bilious.  And  suddenly  he 
waved  the  company  aside,  and  they,  seeing 
that  the  show  was  at  an  end,  straggled  out, 
noisily  and  slowly.  Pansy  moved  to  him  at 
the  last,  but  it  was  certain  that  he  was  too 
sick  for  amusement,  and  he  toddled  with  a 
friend  to  another  room. 

Pansy,  left  alone,  went  down  the  stairs 
and  out  into  the  clear,  cold  air  and  the 
midnight  glitter  of  Poplar. 

Tai  Fu  died  that  night  of  aconite  poisoning. 
However,  he  had  chewed  strange  leaves  and 
preparations  of  leaves  for  so  long  that  no  one 
was  much  surprised.  Certainly  Pansy  was 
not.  When  she  heard  of  it,  she  murmured, 
"  Oh  1  "  airily,  as  though  to  say  :  "  Damn 
good  riddance." 

For  when  she  had  undressed  in  her  bed- 
room, on  the  night  of  the  feast,  she  had  re- 
moved from  the  belt  of  her  waist  a  fine  needle, 
which  had  lain  for  forty-eight  hours  in  a 
distillation  of  aconite. 


167 


The  Bird 


IT  is  a  tale  that  they  tell  softly  in  Penny- 
fields,  when  the  curtains  are  drawn  and 
the  shapes  of  the  night  shut  out.  .  .  . 
Those  who  held  that  Captain  Chudder, 
s.s.  Peacock,  owners,  Peter  Dubbin  &  Co., 
had  a  devil  in  him,  were  justified.  But  they 
were  nearer  the  truth  who  held  that  his  devil 
was  not  within  him,  but  at  his  side,  perching 
at  his  elbow,  dropping  sardonic  utterance  in 
his  ear ;  moving  with  him  day  and  night  and 
prompting  him — so  it  was  held — to  frightful 
excesses.  His  devil  wore  the  shape  of  a  white 
parrot,  a  bird  of  lusty  wings  and  the  cruellest 
of  beaks.  There  were  those  who  whispered 
that  the  old  man  had  not  always  been  the 
man  that  his  crew  knew  him  to  be  :  that 
he  had  been  a  normal,  kindly  fellow  until  he 
acquired  his  strange  companion  from  a  native 
dealer  in  the  malevolent  Solomons.  Certainly 
his  maniac  moods  dated  from  its  purchase ; 
and  there  was  truth  in  the  dark  hints  of  his 
men  that  there  was  something  wrong  with 
that  damned  bird  ...  a  kind  of  ...  some- 
thing you  sort  of  felt  when  it  looked  at  you 
or  answered  you  back.  For  one  thing,  it  had 
a  diabolical  knack  of  mimicry,  and  many  a 
chap  would  cry  :  "  Yes,  George  1 "  or  "  Right, 
sir  1 "  in  answer  to  a  commanding  voice 

171 


Limehouse  Nights 


which  chuckled  with  glee  as  he  came 
smartly  to  order.  They  invariably  referred 
to  it  as  "  that  bloody  bird,"  though  actually 
it  had  done  nothing  to  merit  such  opprobrium. 
When  they  thought  it  over  calmly,  they  could 
think  of  no  harm  that  it  had  done  to  them  : 
nothing  to  arouse  such  loathing  as  every  man 
on  the  boat  felt  towards  it.  It  was  not 
spiteful ;  it  was  not  bad-tempered.  Mostly 
it  was  in  cheery  mood  and  would  chuckle 
deep  in  the  throat,  like  the  Captain,  and  echo 
or  answer,  quite  pleasantly,  such  remarks, 
usually  rude,  as  were  addressed  to  it. 

And  yet  .  .  .  Somehow  .  .  . 

There  it  was.  It  was  always  there — every- 
where ;  and  in  its  speech  they  seemed  to  find 
a  sinister  tone  which  left  them  guessing  at 
the  meaning  of  its  words.  On  one  occasion, 
the  cook,  in  the  seclusion  of  the  fo'c'sle,  had 
remarked  that  he  would  like  to  wring  its  neck 
if  he  could  get  hold  of  it ;  but  old  grizzled 
Snorter  had  replied  that  that  bird  couldn't 
be  killed.  There  was  a  something  about  that 
bird  that  .  ,  .  well,  he  betted  no  one  wouldn't 
touch  that  bird  without  trouble.  And  a 
moment  of  panic  stabbed  the  crowd  as  a 
voice  leapt  from  the  sombre  shadows  of  the 
corner : 

172 


The  Bird 

"  That's  the  style,  me  old  brown  son. 
Don't  try  to  come  it  with  me — what  ?  "  and 
ceased  on  a  spasmodic  flutter  of  wicked 
white  wings. 

That  night,  as  the  cook  was  ascending  the 
companion,  he  was  caught  by  a  huge  sea, 
which  swept  across  the  boat  from  nowhere 
and  dashed  him,  head-on,  below.  For  a  week 
he  was  sick  with  a  broken  head,  and  through- 
out that  week  the  bird  would  thrust  its  beak 
to  the  berth  where  he  lay,  and  chortle  to  him  : 

"  Yep,  me  old  brown  son.  Wring  his 
bleeding  neck — what  ?  Waltz  me  around 
again,  Willie,  round  and  round  and  round  !  " 

That  is  the  seamen's  story  and,  as  the  air 
of  Limehouse  is  thick  with  seamen's  stories, 
it  is  not  always  good  to  believe  them.  But 
it  is  a  widely  known  fact  that  on  his  last 
voyage  the  Captain  did  have  a  devil  with 
him,  the  foulest  of  all  devils  that  possess 
mortal  men  :  not  the  devil  of  slaughter,  but 
the  devil  of  cruelty.  They  were  from 
Swatow  to  London,  and  it  was  noted  that  he 
was  drinking  heavily  ashore,  and  he  con- 
tinued the  game  throughout  the  voyage. 
He  came  aboard  from  Swatow,  drunk,  bring- 
ing with  him  a  Chinese  boy,  also  drunk.  Tne 
greaser,  being  a  big  man,  kicked  him  below ; 

173 


Limehouse  Nights 


otherwise,  the  boat  in  his  charge  would  have 
gone  there  ;  and  so  he  sat  or  sprawled  in  his 
cabin,  with  a  rum  bottle  before  him  and,  on 
the  corner  of  his  chair,  the  white  parrot, 
which  conversed  with  him  and  sometimes 
fluttered  on  deck  to  shout  orders  in  the 
frightful  voice  of  his  master  and  chuckle  to 
see  them  momentarily  obeyed. 

41  Yes,"  repeated  old  man  Snorter,  sen- 
tentiously,  "  I'd  run  a  hundred  miles  'fore 
I'd  try  to  monkey  with  the  old  man  or  his 
bloody  bird.  There's  something  about  that 
bird.  ...  I  said  so  before.  I  'card  a  story 
once  about  a  bird.  Out  in  T'aip'ing  I  'card 
it.  It'll  make  yeh  sick  if  I  tell  it.  .  .  ." 

Now  while  the  Captain  remained  drunk  in 
his  cabin,  he  kept  with  him  for  company  the 
miserable,  half-starved  Chinky  boy  whom  he 
had  brought  aboard.  And  it  would  make 
others  sick  if  the  full  dark  tale  were  told  here 
of  what  the  master  of  the  Peacock  did  to 
that  boy.  You  may  read  of  monstrosities  in 
police  reports  of  cruelty  cases  ;  you  may  read 
old  records  of  the  Middle  Ages ;  but  the 
bestialities  of  Captain  Chudder  could  not  be 
told  in  words. 

His  orgy  of  drink  and  delicious  torture 
lasted  till  they  were  berthed  in  the  Thames ; 

174 


The  Bird 

and  the  details  remain  siiarp  and  clear  in  the 
memories  of  those  who  witnessed  it.  At  all 
the  ceremonial  horrors  which  were  wrought 
in  that  wretched  cabin,  the  parrot  was 
present.  It  jabbered  to  the  old  man ;  the 
old  man  jabbered  back,  and  gave  it  an 
occasional  sip  of  rum  from  his  glass  ;  and  the 
parrot  would  mimic  the  Chink's  entreaties, 
and  wag  a  grave  claw  at  him  as  he  writhed 
under  the  ritual  of  punishment ;  and  when 
that  day's  ceremony  was  finished  it  would 
flutter  from  bow  to  stern  of  the  boat,  its 
cadaverous  figure  stinging  the  shadows  with 
shapes  of  fear  for  all  aboard  ;  perching  here, 
perching  there,  simpering  and  whining  in  tune 
with  the  Chink's  placid  moaning. 

Placid ;  yes,  outwardly.  But  the  old 
man's  wickedness  had  lighted  a  flame  be- 
neath that  yellow  skin  which  nothing  could 
quench  :  nothing  but  the  floods  of  vengeance. 
Had  the  old  man  been  a  little  more  cute  and 
a  little  less  drunk,  he  might  have  remembered 
that  a  Chinaman  does  not  forget.  He  would 
have  read  danger  in  the  face  that  was  so  sub- 
missive under  his  devilries.  Perhaps  he  did 
see  it,  but,  because  of  the  rum  that  was  in 
him,  felt  himself  secure  from  the  hate  of  any 
outcast  Chink ;  knew  that  his  victim  would 


Lime/iouse  Nights 


never  once  get  the  chance  to  repay  him, 
Captain  Chudder,  master  of  the  Peacock,  and 
one  of  the  very  smartest.  The  Chink  was 
alone  and  weaponless,  and  dare  not  come  aft 
without  orders.  He  was  master  of  the  boat ; 
he  had  a  crew  to  help  him,  and  knives  and 
guns,  and  he  had  his  faithful  white  bird  to 
warn  him.  Too,  as  soon  as  they  docked  at 
Limehouse,  he  would  sling  him  off  or  arrange 
quick  transfer  to  an  outward  boat,  since  he 
had  no  further  use  for  him. 

But  it  happened  that  he  made  no  attempt 
to  transfer.  He  had  forgotten  that  idea. 
He  just  sat  below,  finished  his  last  two 
bottles,  paid  off  his  men,  and  then,  after  a 
sleep,  went  ashore  to  report.  Having  done 
that,  he  forgot  all  trivial  affairs,  such  as 
business,  and  set  himself  seriously  to  search 
for  amusement.  He  climbed  St  George's, 
planning  a  real  good  old  booze-up,  and  the 
prospect  that  spread  itself  before  his  mind 
was  so  compelling  that  he  did  not  notice  a 
lurking  yellow  phantom  that  hung  on  his 
shadow.  He  visited  the  Baltic  on  the  chance 
of  finding  an  old  pal  or  so,  and,  meeting  none, 
he  called  at  a  shipping  office  at  Fenchurch 
Street,  where  he  picked  up  an  acquaintance, 
and  they  two  returned  eastward  to  Poplar, 

176 


The  Bird 

and  the  phantom  feet  sup-supped  after  them. 
Through  the  maze  and  clamour  of  the  London 
streets  and  traffic  the  shadow  slid  ;  it  dodged 
and  danced  about  the  Captain's  little  cottage 
in  Gill  Street ;  and  when  he,  and  others,  came 
out  and  strolled  to  a  bar,  and,  later,  to  a 
music  hall,  it  flitted,  mothlike,  around  them. 

Surely,  since  there  is  no  step  in  the  world 
that  has  just  the  obvious  stealth  of  the 
Chinaman's,  he  must  have  heard  those 
whispering  feet  ?  Surely  his  path  was 
darkened  by  that  shadow  ?  But  no.  After 
the  music  hall  he  drifted  to  a  water-side  wine- 
shop, and  then,  with  a  bunch  of  the  others, 
went  wandering. 

It  was  late.  Eleven  notes  straggled  across 
the  waters  from  many  grey  towers.  Sirens 
were  screeching  their  derisive  song;  and 
names  of  various  Scotch  whiskies  spelt 
themselves  in  letters  of  yellow  flame  along 
the  night.  Far  in  the  darkness  a  voice  was 
giving  the  chanty  : 

"What  shall  we  do  with  a  drunken  sailor?" 

The  Captain  braced  himself  up  and  promised 
himself    a    real    glittering    night    of    good- 
fellowship,  and  from  gin-warmed  bar  to  gin- 
warmed  bar  he  roved,  meeting  the  lurid  girls 
u  177 


Limehouse  Nights 


of  the  places  and  taking  one  of  them  upstairs. 
At  the  last  bar  his  friends,  too,  went  up- 
stairs with  their  ladies,  and,  it  being  then  one 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  he  brought  a  pleasant 
evening  to  a  close  at  a  certain  house  in  Poplar 
High  Street,  where  he  took  an  hour's  amuse- 
ment by  flinging  half-crowns  over  the  fan-tan 
table. 

But  always  the  yellow  moth  was  near, 
and  when,  at  half-past  two,  he  came,  with 
uncertain  step,  into  the  sad  street,  now 
darkened  and  loud  only  with  the  drunken, 
who  found  unfamiliar  turnings  in  familiar 
streets,  and  old  landmarks  many  yards  away 
from  their  rightful  places,  the  moth  buzzed 
closer  and  closer. 

The  Captain  talked  as  he  went.  He  talked 
of  the  night  he  had  had,  and  the  girls  his 
hands  had  touched.  His  hard  face  was 
cracked  to  a  meaningless  smile,  and  he  spat 
words  at  obstructive  lamp-posts  and  kerb- 
stones, and  swears  dropped  like  toads  from 
his  lips.  But  at  last  he  found  his  haven  in 
Gill  Street,  and  his  hefty  brother,  with  whom 
he  lived  when  ashore,  shoved  him  upstairs  to 
his  bedroom.  He  fell  across  the  bed,  and  the 
sleep  of  the  swinish  held  him  fast. 


178 


The  Bird 

The  grey  towers  were  tolling  three  o'clock, 
and  the  thick  darkness  of  the  water-side 
covered  the  night  like  a  blanket.  The  lamps 
were  pale  and  few.  The  waters  slucked 
miserably  at  the  staples  of  the  wharves.  One 
heard  the  measured  beat  of  a  constable's 
boot ;  sometimes  the  rattle  of  chains  and 
blocks ;  mournful  hooters ;  shudders  of 
noise  as  engines  butted  lines  of  trucks  at  the 
shunting  station. 

Captain  Chudder  slept,  breathing  stertor- 
ously,  mouth  open,  limbs  heavy  and  nerve- 
less. His  room  was  deeply  dark,  and  so 
little  light  shone  on  the  back  reaches  of  the 
Gill  Street  cottages  that  the  soft  raising  of  the 
window  made  no  visible  aperture.  Into  this 
blank  space  something  rose  from  below,  and 
soon  it  took  the  shape  of  a  flat,  yellow  face 
which  hung  motionless,  peering  into  the 
room.  Then  a  yellow  hand  came  through; 
the  aperture  was  widened;  and  swiftly  and 
silently  a  lithe,  yellow  body  hauled  itself  up 
and  slipped  over  the  sill. 

It  glided,  with  outstretched  hand,  from  the 
window,  and,  the  moment  it  touched  the  bed, 
its  feeling  fingers  went  here  and  there,  and  it 
stood  still,  gazing  upon  the  sleep  of  drunken- 
ness. Calmly  and  methodically  a  yellow 

179 


Lime/iouse  Nighh 


hand  moved  to  its  waist  and  withdrew  a 
kreese.  The  same  hand  raised  the  kreese 
and  held  it  poised.  It  was  long,  keen  and 
beautifully  curved,  but  not  a  ray  of  light  was 
in  the  room  to  fall  upon  it,  and  the  yellow 
hand  had  to  feel  its  bright  blade  to  find 
whether  the  curve  ran  from  or  towards  it. 

Then,  with  terrific  force  and  speed,  it  came 
down  :  one — two — three.  The  last  breath 
rushed  from  the  open  lips.  Captain  Chudder 
was  out. 

The  strong  yellow  hand  withdrew  the 
kreese  for  the  last  time,  wiped  it  on  the  cover- 
let of  the  bed,  and  replaced  it  in  its  home. 
The  figure  turned,  like  a  wraith,  for  the 
window ;  turned  for  the  window  and  found, 
in  a  moment  of  panic,  that  it  knew  not  which 
way  to  turn.  It  hesitated  a  moment.  It 
thought  it  heard  a  sound  at  the  bed.  It 
touched  the  coverlet  and  the  boots  of  the 
Captain  ;  all  was  still.  Stretching  a  hand  to 
the  wall,  Sung  Dee  began  to  creep  and  to  feel 
his  way  along.  Dark  as  the  room  was,  he 
had  found  his  way  in,  without  matches  or 
illuminant.  Why  could  he  not  find  his  way 
out  ?  Why  was  he  afraid  of  something  ? 

Blank  wall  was  all  he  found  at  first.  Then 
his  hand  touched  what  seemed  to  be  a 

180 


The  Bird 

picture  frame.  It  swung  and  clicked  and 
the  noise  seemed  to  echo  through  the  still 
house.  He  moved  farther,  and  a  sharp  rattle 
told  him  that  he  had  struck  the  loose  handle 
of  the  door.  But  that  was  of  little  help.  He 
could  not  use  the  door ;  he  knew  not  what 
perils  lay  behind  it.  It  was  the  window  he 
wanted — the  window. 

Again  he  heard  that  sound  from  tl  •  bed. 
He  stepped  boldly  forward  and  judget  that 
he  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
Momentarily  a  sharp  shock  surged  over  him. 
He  prayed  for  matches,  and  something  in  his 
throat  was  almost  crying  :  "  The  window  ! 
The  window !  "  He  seemed  like  an  island 
in  a  sea  of  darkness  ;  one  man  surrounded  by 
legions  of  immortal,  intangible  enemies.  His 
cold  Chinese  heart  went  hot  with  fear. 

The  middle  of  the  room,  he  judged,  and 
took  another  step  forward,  a  step  which 
landed  his  chin  sharply  against  the  jutting 
edge  of  the  mantelshelf  over  the  fireplace. 
He  jumped  like  a  cat  and  his  limbs  shook ; 
for  now  he  had  lost  the  door  and  the  bed,  as 
well  as  the  window,  and  had  made  terrible 
noises  which  might  bring  disaster.  All  sense 
of  direction  was  gone.  He  knew  not  whether 
to  go  forward  or  backward,  to  right  or  left. 

181 


Lime/iouse  Nights 


He  heard  the  tinkle  of  the  shunting  trains, 
and  he  heard  a  rich  voice  crying  something 
in  his  own  tongue.  But  he  was  lapped 
around  by  darkness  and  terror,  and  a  cruel 
fancy  came  to  him  that  he  was  imprisoned 
here  for  ever  and  for  ever,  and  that  he  would 
never  escape  from  this  enveloping,  suffo- 
cating room.  He  began  to  think  that 

An  then  a  hot  iron  of  agony  rushed  down 
his  1  *ck  as,  sharp  and  clear  at  his  elbow, 
came  the  Captain's  voice  : 

"  Get  forrard,  you  damn  lousy  Chink — -get 
forrard.  Lively  there  1  Get  out  of  my 
room  !  " 

He  sprang  madly  aside  from  the  voice  that 
had  been  the  terror  of  his  life  for  so  many 
weeks,  and  collided  with  the  door;  realised 
that  he  had  made  further  fearful  noises ; 
dashed  away  from  it  and  crashed  into  the 
bed ;  fell  across  it  and  across  the  warm,  wet 
body  that  lay  there.  Every  nerve  in  every 
limb  of  him  was  seared  with  horror  at  the 
contact,  and  he  leapt  off,  kicking,  biting, 
writhing.  He  leapt  off,  and  fell  against  a 
table,  which  tottered,  and  at  last  fell  with  a 
stupendous  crash  into  the  fender. 

"  Lively,  you  damn  Chink ! "  said  the 
Captain.  "  Lively,  I  tell  yeh.  Eance,  d'yeh 

182 


The  Bird 

hear  ?  I'll  have  yeh  for  this.  I'll  learn  you 
something.  I'll  give  you  something  with  a 
sharp  knife  and  a  bit  of  hot  iron,  my  cocky. 
I'll  make  yer  yellow  skin  crackle,  yeh  damn 
lousy  chopstick.  I'll  have  yeh  in  a  minute. 
And  when  I  get  yeh,  orf  with  yeh  clothes. 
I'll  cut  yeh  to  pieces,  I  will." 

Sung  Dee  shrieked.  He  ran  round  and 
round,  beating  the  wall  with  his  hands,  laugh- 
ing, crying,  jumping,  while  all  manner  of 
shapes  arose  in  his  path,  lit  by  the  grey  light 
of  fear.  He  realised  that  it  was  all  up  how. 
He  cared  not  how  much  noise  he  made.  He 
hadn't  killed  the  old  man ;  only  wounded 
him.  And  now  all  he  desired  was  to  find  the 
door  and  any  human  creatures  who  might 
save  him  from  the  Captain.  He  met  the  bed 
again,  suddenly,  and  the  tormentor  who  lay 
there.  He  met  the  upturned  table  and  fell 
upon  it,  and  he  met  the  fireplace  and  the 
blank  wall ;  but  never,  never  the  window  or 
the  door.  They  had  vanished.  There  was 
no  way  out.  He  was  caught  in  that  dark 
room,  and  the  Captain  would  do  as  he  liked 
with  him.  .  .  .  He  heard  footsteps  in  the 
passage  and  sounds  of  menace  and  alarm 
below.  But  to  him  they  were  friendly 
sounds,  and  he  screamed  loudly  toward  them. 

183 


Lime/wuse  Nights 


He  cried  to  the  Captain,  in  his  pidgin,  for 
mercy. 

"  Oh,  Captain — no  burn  me  to-day,  Captain. 
Sung  Dee  be  heap  good  sailor,  heap  good 
servant,  all  same  slave.  Sung  Dee  heap 
plenty  solly  hurt  Captain.  Sung  Dee  be 
good  boy.  No  do  feller  bad  lings  no  feller 
more.  O  Captain.  Let  Sung  Dee  go  lis 
time.  Let  Sung  Dee  go.  O  Captain  !  " 

But  **  Oh,  my  Gawd  1  "  answered  the 
Captain.  "  Bless  your  yellow  heart.  Wait 
till  I  get  you  trussed  up.  Wait  till  I  get  you 
below.  I'll  learn  yeh." 

And  now  those  below  came  upstairs,  and 
they  listened  in  the  passage,  and  for  the  space 
of  a  minute  they  were  hesitant.  For  they 
heard  all  manner  of  terrible  noises,  and  by 
the  noises  there  might  have  been  half-a-dozen 
fellows  in  the  Captain's  room.  But  very 
soon  the  screaming  and  the  pattering  feet 
were  still,  and  they  heard  nothing  but  low 
moans ;  and  at  last  the  bravest  of  them,  the 
Captain's  brother,  swung  the  door  open  and 
flashed  a  large  lantern. 

And  those  who  were  with  him  fell  back  in 
dumb  horror,  while  the  brother  cried  harshly  : 
'*  Oh  1  ...  my  ...  God ! "  For  the  lantern 
shone  on  a  Chinaman  seated  on  the  edge  of 

184 


The  Bird 

the  bed.  Across  his  knees  lay  the  dead  body 
of  the  Captain,  and  the  Chink  was  fondling 
his  damp,  dead  face,  talking  baby  talk  to  him, 
dancing  him  on  his  knee,  and  now  and  then 
making  idiot  moans.  But  what  sent  the 
crowd  back  in  horror  was  that  a  great  death- 
white  Thing  was  flapping  about  the  yellow 
face  of  the  Chink,  cackling  :  "  I'll  learn  yeh  1 
I'll  learn  yeh  1 "  and  dragging  strips  of  flesh 
away  with  every  movement  of  the  beak. 


i85 


Gina  of  the  Chinatown 

d  Reminiscence 


^ 


MEMORY  is  a  delicate  instrument. 
Like  an  old  musical  box,  it  will  lie 
silent  for  long  years  ;  then  a  mere 
nothing,  a  jerk,  a  tremor,  will  start  the  spring, 
and  from  beneath  its  decent  covering  of  dust 
it  will  talk  to  us  of  forgotten  passion  and 
desire.  Some  memories  are  thus  moved  at 
sight  of  a  ribbon,  a  faded  violet,  a  hotel  bill  ; 
others  at  the  sound  of  a  voice  or  a  bar  of 
music,  or  at  the  bite  of  a  flavour  on  the  palate 
or  an  arrangement  of  skies  against  a  well- 
known  background.  To  me  return  all  the 
unhappy,  far-off  things  when  I  smell  the 
sharp  odour  of  a  little  dirty  theatre  near 
Blackwall.  Then  I  think  upon  all  those 
essences  of  life  most  fragrant  and  fresh,  and 
upon  .  .  .  Gina  Bertello. 

Gina  Bertello  was  as  facile  and  appealing 
as  the  syllables  of  her  name.  At  thirteen 
she  was  the  happiest  and  best-loved  child  in 
Acacia  Grove,  Poplar  ;  for  she  had  those  three 
rare  qualities  which,  together,  will  carry  any 
pilgrim  safely  through  this  world  to  the  higher 
blisses  of  the  next  :  she  was  gentle  —  and 
brave  —  and  gay. 

You  might  then  have  seen  her  about  the 
streets  at  all  hours  of  day  and  night,  a  frail 
slip  of  a  kiddie,  delicate  as  a  water-colour, 

189 


Limehouse  Nights 


swift  and  restless  as  a  bird.  From  her  little 
head  hung  twenty  bright  yellow  curls,  short 
to  the  neck,  and  these  curls  shook  and  caught 
the  sun  fifty  times  to  the  minute  as  she  shot 
her  sharp  glances,  which  rested  on  nothing 
and  yet  reflected  everything.  Liquid  fire 
seemed  to  run  under  the  light  skin,  and  the 
lines  of  her  figure,  every  one  of  which  had 
•  something  true  to  say  to  you,  were  of  an 
r2  almost  epigrammatic  neatness.  Small  as 
she  was,  she  was  perfectly  built,  and  dressed 
with  that  careful  contempt  for  taste  which> 
you  may  observe  in  the  attire  of  all  children 
of  theatrical  parents.  A  black  satin  frock 
kissed  the  slim,  stockinged  leg  at  the  delicately 
correct  moment ;  a  scarlet  band  held  the 
waist ;  a  scarlet  hat  crowned  all ;  and  the 
shock  of  short  curls,  chiming  with  the  black 
and  scarlet,  made  an  unforgettable  picture 
which  always  appealed  to  the  stage  sense  of 
her  old  dad,  Batty  Bertello.  Moreover,  there 
was  the  practical  advantage  that  if  ever 
you  wanted  your  Gina  in  a  hurry,  when  she 
was  out  playing,  you  could  always  pick  her 
from  any  bunch  of  children  half-a-mile  away. 
Also,  she  could  never  be  lost,  for  she  stood/f 
alone.  Indeed,  no  child  has  ever  been  seen, 
either  in  Poplar  or  in  Kensington,  of  such 

190 


Gina  of  the  Chinatown 

arresting  appearance  as  this  rumple-headed 
darling  who,  for  twelve  months,  flitted,  in 
small  type,  across  the  bills  of  the  minor  music 
halls.  She  was  as  distinctive  as  a  nigger  in 
a  snowstorm ;  and  when  she  was  taken  to 
theatres  or  concerts  beyond  the  confines  of 
Poplar  where  she  was  known,  people  turned 
to  stare  at  her,  and  turned  again  to  stare. 
There  was  about  her  some  elfish  quality  that 
made  her  seem  only  half  real.  Even  her  old 
dad  could  not  quite  believe  in  her.  He  fully 
expected  some  morning  to  wake  up  and  find 
that  she  had  slipped  away  to  the  bluebell  or 
daffodil  from  which  she  had  escaped. 

"  That  youngster  of  mine,"  he  would  say, 
"  is  hot  stuff.  She  don't  half  get  on.  Come 
round  next  Sunday  night,  and  we'll  have 
some  music.  Y'ought  to  hear  her  play. 
Rachmaninoff  prelude,  Valse  Triste,  Mozart 
sonatas.  Fairly  tears  the  back  hair  off  yeh. 
Got  temperament,  that  kid.  She's  coming 
up,  too,  with  her  dancing.  Oh,  she's  hot." 

Mrs.  Bertello  would  echo  him,  but  a  little 
sadly ;  for,  as  Gina  grew,  from  seven  to 
thirteen,  so  did  Mrs.  Bertello  fade  and  fade 
and  withdraw  more  and  more  up-stage. 
Gina  was  going  to  get  on  ;  she  knew  it.  She 
knew,  too,  that  Gina  would  get  on  without 

191 


Limehouse  Nights 


any  help  from  her  ;  so  she  stood  in  the  back- 
ground and  grew  careless  about  herself  and 
her  person.  She  wore  old  clothes  and  old 
manners.  She  snuffled.  She  loafed  about 
the  house  and  in  bed,  and  she  let  things  go. 
If  only  she  could  have  felt  that  the  getting 
on,  of  Gina  depended  upon  her.  .  .  .  But  by 
the  time  the  child  was  seven  she  realised 
that  she  stood  in  the  presence  of  something 
stronger  than  herself.  It  frightened  and  dis- 
tressed her  that  she  should  have  produced 
something  so  sharp  and  foreign.  She  knew 
that  she  was  loved  and  always  would  be 
loved.  But  she  wanted  most  of  all  to  be 
wanted.  And  she  wasn't. 

At  twelve  Gina  was  running  the  home. 
Old  dad  was  dresser  to  a  red-nose  bill-topper, 
which  meant  that  he  did  not  finish  work  until 
two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  It  was  Gina 
who  sat  up  every  night  to  serve  his  supper. 
Mumdear  toddled  to  bed  with  a  little  warm 
whisky,  leaving  Gina  in  the  kitchen  with 
queer  books — Tennyson,  Br -owning,  Childc 
Harold,  Lives  of  the  Composers,  The  Golden 
Treasury,  Marcus  Aurelius,  The  Faerie  Quecnc. 
At  two  o'clock  old  dad  would  bounce  in, 
full  of  anecdote  and  reminiscence  and  original 
whimsy,  and  they  would  sup  together,  Gina, 

192 


Gin  a  of  the  Chinatown 

from  the  age  of  eleven,  always  taking  a  glass 
of  beer  and  a  cigarette  with  him.  It  was  he 
who  had  bought  her  those  books.  It  was 
he  who  had  interested  his  guv'nor  in  the  kid, 
so  that  the  guv'nor  had  handed  him  money 
wherewith  to  get  music  lessons  and  to 
secure  a  practice  piano.  It  was  he  who  had 
spoken  to  Madame  Gilibert,  controller  of  the 
famous  music-hall  child-dancers,  the  Casino 
Juveniles ;  and  Madame,  recognising  that 
dad  was  dresser  to  a  star,  and  might,  in 
certain  underground  ways,  be  useful,  took 
the  child  and  put  her  through  a  course. 
Within  the  first  week  she  thought  she  had 
found  a  Taglioni,  and  that  hers  would  be 
the  honour — and  the  commission.  Of  course 
she  hadn't  found  a  Taglioni,  and  none  knew 
that  better  than  Gina,  though  she  did  not 
say  so,  for  she  believed  in  taking  what  we 
can  while  we  can. 

It  was  old  dad,  too,  who  had  made  a  com- 
panion of  her  and  talked  to  her,  through  those 
late  hours,  of  the  things  that  could  be  done 
in  the  world — of  the  things  that  he  himself 
had  tried  and  failed  to  do.  He  had  talked 
to  her  of  laughter  and  courage  and  endur-i 
ance,  and  of  "  playing  the  game."  \ 

From  him  she  had  inherited  a  love  of  all 
»  193 


Limekouse  Nights 


raw  and  simple  things,  all  that  was  odorous 
of  the  flesh.  She  hated  country  solitudes, 
and  she  loved  Poplar  and  the  lights  and  the 
noise  of  people.  She  loved  it  for  its  blatant 
life.  She  loved  the  streets,  the  glamour, 
the  diamond  dusks,  the  dirt  and  the  perfume. 
She  loved  the  shops  and  the  stalls,  with  their 
alluring  treasures — treasures,  moreover,  that 
you  could  buy,  not,  as  in  the  West,  priced 
beyond  your  maddest  dreams.  There  was 
Salmon  Lane  market.  There  were  the  docks. 
There  were  the  fearsome  Malays.  There  was 
the  Chinese  quarter.  There  was  the  Isle  of 
Dogs,  with  its  exciting  bridges  and  waterways. 
There  were  the  timid  twilights  and  the  home- 
comings ;  the  merry  boys  and  girls  of  the 
pavements,  and  the  softly  lighted  windows. 
She  loved  them  all,  and  they  became  all 
part  of  her  ;  and  she  was  right  in  loving  them. 
For  Poplar  is  a  land  of  homes,  and  where  a 
thousand  homes  are  gathered  together,  there 
do  we  find  beauty  and  prayer.  There,  among 
the  ashpits  and  broken  boats  and  dry  canals, 
are  girls  and  garlands  and  all  the  old,  lovely 
things  that  help  the  human  heart  to  float  along 
its  winding  courses  to  the  sea.  The  shapes, 
sounds,  colours  and  silences  of  the  place 
shook  her  to  wonder,  and  the  flamboyant 

194 


Gin  a  of  the  Chinatown 

curves  of  the  road  to  Barking,  where  are 
lean  grey  streets  of  villas  and  vociferant 
markets,  were  always  to  her  the  way  to  the 
Realms  of  Gold.  Every  street  was  a  sharp- 
flavoured  adventure,  and  at  night  each  had 
a  little  untranslatable  message  for  her. 
Everywhere  she  built  romances.  She  was 
a  mandarin's  daughter  in  Pennyfields.  She 
was  a  sailor's  wife  in  the  Isle  of  Dogs.  In 
the  West  India  Dock  Road  she  was  a  South 
Sea  princess,  decked  with  barbaric  jewels 
and  very  terrible  knives.  She  did  not  like 
western  London  :  it  wasn't  homey.  She 
loved  only  the  common  joys  of  the  flesh  and 
the  common  joys  of  the  heart ;  and  these  she 
found  in  Poplar.  It  was  all  so  cosy  and 
sweet  and — oh,  everything  that  you  couldn't 
talk  about.  The  simple  mateyness  of  it  all 
sometimes  made  her  cry.  It  made  her  cry 
because  she  wanted  to  tell  someone  about  it ; 
and  she  couldn't — until  ...  a  year  later 
.  ,  .  she  began  to  dance.  Then  she  told 
everything. 

In  the  Chinatown  Causeway,  too,  were 
half-tones  of  rose  and  silver,  stately  moving 
cut-throats,  up  from  the  great  green  Pacific, 
and  the  muffled  wail  of  reed  instruments  in 
a  song  last  heard  in  Formosa.  Cinnamon 

195 


Lime/iouse  Nights 


and  aconite,  betel  and  bhang  hung  on  the  air. 
There  was  the  blue  moon  of  the  Orient. 
There,  for  the  bold,  were  the  sharp  knives, 
and  there,  for  those  who  would  patiently 
seek,  was  the  lamp  of  young  Aladdin.  I  think 
Gina  must  have  found  it. 

She  loved  Poplar,  and,  loving  so,  she  com- 
manded love,  as  you  will  learn  if  you  inquire 
concerning  her.  When  she  danced  it  was 
Poplar  that  she  expressed,  and  Poplar  wor- 
shipped her  for  it. 

At  twelve  years  old  she  was  dismissed  from 
the  local  Board  School  for  the  sound  reason 
that  the  teachers  confessed  their  inability  to 
teach  her  anything  more.  She  was  too  sharp 
for  them.  Her  morality  she  summed  up  in 
answer  to  a  teacher's  question  as  to  what 
she  understood  by  religion. 

"  I  believe  in  enjoying  yourself,  dears,  and^ 
enjoying  other  people  as  well,  and  making  / 
them  enjoy  you." 

That  was  her  creed,  and  as  to  her  adher- 
ence to  it  and  the  efficacy  of  it  you  must  ask 
the  people  of  Acacia  Grove  and  thereabouts. 
Old  dad  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  in  the 
saloon  of  the  Blue  Lantern  he  explained  : 

"  Ah — when  you've  got  anything  as  hot 
as  our  Gina,  it  don't  do  to  try  and  learn  'em 

196 


Gin  a  of  the  Chinatown 

things.  You  can't.  They  knew  it  all  cen- 
turies before  you  was  born.  And  what  they 
don't  know  they'll  find  out  without  bother- 
ing anyone.  Give  'em  their  heads — that's  all 
you  can  do  with  that  kind  of  kid.  Stand 
aside  ;  she'll  develop  herself." 

Gina  was  thirteen  years  and  six  months 
when  news  was  brought  one  morning  to  the 
narrow  fastnesses  of  Acacia  Grove  that  old 
dad  had  been  killed  in  a  street  accident.  At 
that  moment  she  was  standing  at  the  gate 
nursing  Philip,  the  next-door  baby. 

She  stared.  She  caught  her  breath  as  from 
a  sharp  blow.  Her  face  was,  for  the  first  and 
only  time  in  her  life,  expressionless.  Then, 
with  a  matter-of-fact  movement,  she  deposited 
Philip  on  the  cold  kerb,  looked  up,  addressed 
the  eternities,  and  for  one  minute  told  God, 
in  good  set  terms,  exactly  what  she  thought 
about  Him.  When  thus  relieved,  she  shrugged 
her  little  shoulders  and  gathered  up  the  baby. 

"  Ah,  well.  Hearts  are  trumps.  Globe 
Polish  is  the  best.  The  Lord  Mayor's  coach- 
man says  so,  Philip  of  Macedon.  Looks  from 
here,  Philip  of  Macedon,  as  though  I'd  have 
to  get  busy." 

A  week  after  the  funeral,  she  stood  in  her 
dingy  bedroom,  and  posed  herself  before  the 

197 


Limehouse  Nights 


mirror  with  a  graceful  egotism.  The  slender 
stockinged  legs  looked  that  morning  singu- 
larly pert  and  self-sufficient.  The  black  satin 
jacket  had  an  air  of  past  adventure  amid 
large  things.  She  adjusted  the  black  lace  hat 
the  tiniest  shade  to  the  left  of  the  luscious 
curls,  and  nodded. 

"  Well.  Something's  got  to  be  done,  and 
if  I  don't  do  it  no  one  else  will.  Don't  believe 
in  waiting  for  your  ship  to  come  in.  Only 
thing  to  do  is  to  get  a  bally  boat  and  row  out 
to  meet  it.  Laugh  and  the  world  laughs  with 
you.  Weep  and  you'll  get  a  red  nose,  Gina, 
my  darling.  Now  off  we  go  to  make  our- 
selves as  welcome  as  a  snowflake  in  hell." 

An  hour  later  she  was  a  member  of  the 
Casino  Juveniles,  under  the  direction  of 
Madame  Gilibert,  and  three  hours  later  was 
hard  at  work  rehearsing. 

Many  folk  of  Poplar  must  have  experienced 
only  a  mixed  sorrow  at  the  sudden  end  of 
Batty  Bertello.  For  if  the  old  dad  had  not 
gone  out  so  suddenly  Gina  would  never  have 
been  forced  to  start  work  to  support  Mum- 
dear  ;  and  had  she  not  started  just  at  that 
moment,  she  would  never  have  become  a 
public  character  ;  and  in  that  event  we  should 
have  lost — what  should  we  have  lost  ? 

198 


Gina  of  the  Chinatown 

Well,  everything  that  in  those  days  made 
life  worth  living.  For  it  was  Gina,  that  mop- 
haired,  fragile  baby,  who  taught  thousands 
of  us  how  to  live. 

And  her  beginnings  as  a  public  character 
were  in  this  wise. 

The  turn  of  the  Casino  Juveniles  consisted 
of  vocal  soli,  concerted  numbers,  pas  seuls, 
and  ensembles,  in  the  costumes  of  the  early 
nineteenth  century.  It  was  entitled  Old- 
fashioned  Flowers  (you  may  remember  it), 
and,  with  a  nice  catholicity,  it  embraced  the 
minuet  and  the  pavane  no  less  than  the 
latest  coon  song  and  dance.  At  the  end 
of  the  first  show,  Madame  expressed  herself 
as  well  satisfied  with  Gina. 

"  Seems  to  have  a  real — what  you  might 
call  flare — for  the  stage.  Understands  what 
she's  doing.  Made  for  a  dancer.  Let's  hope 
she  don't  grow." 

For  the  tragedy  of  the  good  lady's  life  was 
that  her  children  would  grow,  and  every  two 
years  or  so  they  had  to  be  weeded  out  and 
new  little  girls  laboriously  trained  to  take  the 
places  of  those  who  possessed  neither  the 
divine  grace  of  the  juvenile  nor  the  self- 
assurance  of  the  adult.  She  had  a  much- 
furrowed  face,  and  swore  hybrid  oaths  at 

199 


Lime/iouse  Nights 


electricians  and  stage  hands.  They  under- 
stood. 

For  the  first  week,  Gina  thoroughly  enjoyed 
herself,  and,  true  to  her  creed,  forced  the  rest 
of  the  company  to  enjoy  her. 

Sharp  at  five  every  afternoon,  she  had  to 
appear  at  the  centre  where  the  private 
omnibus  collected  the  children  and  whisked 
them  away  to  the  first  hall,  where  they  were 
an  early  number — on  at  seven-five — for  the 
first  house.  Then,  out  of  that  hall  to  another 
at  the  far  side  of  London,  where  they  were  a 
concluding  number  for  the  first  house.  Then 
back  to  the  starting-place  for  the  second 
house,  and  off  again  to  finish  at  the  distant 
hall.  At  about  one  in  the  morning  she  would 
trip  home  to  supper,  which  Mumdear  left 
in  the  kitchen  oven.  So  to  bed.  At  ten 
o'clock  next  morning  Mumdear  would  bring 
her  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  cigarette,  and  at  about 
noon  she  would  descend,  unless  a  rehearsal 
were  called  for  eleven. 

Then,  one  brave  night,  came  her  chance 
to  display  that  Ginaesque  quality  that  made 
her  loved  and  admired  by  all  who  knew  her. 
In  a  low  river-side  hall  in  the  Blackball 
direction  the  Casino  Juveniles  were  the 
bill- footers.  This  hall  was  a  relic  of  the  old 

200 


Gin  a  of  the  Chinatown 

times  and  the  old  manners — a  plaintive  echo 
of  the  days  when  the  music  hall  was  little 
more  than  a  cave  of  harmony,  with  a  saw- 
dusted  floor,  a  husky  waiter,  and  a  bull- 
throated  chairman.  Efforts  to  bring  it  up 
to  date  by  renovation  and  structural  altera- 
tion had  only  had  the  effect  of  emphasising 
its  age,  and  its  threepenny  gallery  and  its 
fourpenny  pit  told  their  own  tale. 

By  this  time  Gina  had,  by  some  subtle 
means,  unknown  to  herself  or  to  others, 
established  herself  as  leader  of  the  Casinos. 
Her  compelling  personality,  her  wide  know- 
ledge of  "  things "  as  well  as  matters  of 
general  interest,  and  her  confident  sagacity, 
had,  together,  drawn  even  those  youngsters 
who  had  been  two  years  with  the  turn  to  look 
to  her  as  a  final  court  of  appeal  in  all  questions 
and  disputes.  They  listened  to  her  ideas  of 
dance,  and  took  cues  from  her  that  rightly 
should  have  come  from  the  titular  leader. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  touch  of  devil  which 
alternately  smouldered  and  flamed  in  Gina's 
eyes  that  was  the  real  secret  of  her  domina- 
tion of  her  fellows ;  a  touch  that  came  from 
the  splash  of  soft  Southern  blood  in  her  veins, 
bequeathed  by  a  grandfather  who,  in  his  early 
twenties,  mislaid  his  clasp-knife  somewhere 

•ox 


Limehouse  Nights 


between  the  ribs  of  a  neighbour  on  the 
island  of  Sicily,  and  found  it  expedient  to 
give  up  the  search  for  it  and  come  to  England. 
This  languorous,  sun-loved  blood,  fused  with 
the  steady  blood  of  the  North,  resulted  in  a 
mixture  which  raced  under  her  skin  with  the 
passion  and  energy  of  a  greyhound,  and  gave 
her  that  mysterious  Jlan  which  decided,  as 
soon  as  she  could  walk,  that  she  was  born 
for  dance. 

On  the  big  night — a  Wednesday  :  early- 
closing  night — the  hall  was  playing  to  good 
business.  It  was  lit  with  a  suave  brilliance. 
Gallery  packed,  pit  packed,  stalls  packed,  and 
the  gangway  by  the  babbling  bar  packed 
close  with  the  lads  of  the  water-side — niggers, 
white  toughs,  and  yellow  men. 

The  air  was  mephitic  :  loud  with  foot  and 
voice  and  glass.  It  stunk  of  snarling  song. 
Solemn  smokes  of  cut  plug  swirled  in  a  haze 
of  lilac  up  to  the  dreary  rim  of  gallery  and  the 
chimera  of  corpse  faces  that  swam  above  it. 
At  nine-ten  Gina  and  the  rest  of  the  Casinos 
stood  in  the  wings,  watching  the  turn  that 
preceded  them  on  the  bill — Luigi  Cadenza, 
the  world-renowned  Italian  tenor  :  salary 
three  guineas  per  week  for  thirteen  shows  a 
week— who  was  handing  Santa  Lucia  and 

202 


Gin  a  of  the  Chinatown 

O  sole  mio  to  an  indifferent  audience  ;  for 
in  vaudeville  it  is  the  early  turn  that  gets 
the  bird.  Near  them  stood  the  manager, 
discussing  the  Lincolnshire  probables  with 
the  stage  manager.  Much  dirty  and  faded 
scenery,  alleged  fireproof,  was  piled  to  the 
flies,  and  on  either  side  were  iron  doors  and 
stone  staircases.  Everywhere  were  strong 
draughts  and  crusted  dirt. 

Suddenly,  from  behind  a  sweep  of  canvas, 
leapt  an  antic  figure,  dishevelled,  begrimed, 
inarticulate.  It  plucked  the  manager  by 
the  sleeve. 

"  Wire's  fused,  sir.  Caught  oner  the  flies. 
Blazing  like  old  hell." 

The  manager  jerked  his  neck  at  the  stage 
manager. 

"  Ring  down  !  " 

A  bell  tinkled,  and  the  shabby  purple 
curtain  dropped  on  the  world-renowned  tenor 
in  the  midst  of  his  Santa  Luci-i-i-a,  and 
smothered  him  with  confusion  and  with  its 
own  folds. 

The  neck  jerked  again. 

"  Ring  down  safety,  too." 

He  shot  a  hand  to  the  telephone,  rang 
through  to  the  orchestra  and  spoke  two  words. 

The  conductor  in  front  saw  the  flash  of  the 
203 


Lime/wuse  Nights 


light  at  his  desk.  He  bent  to  the  receiver. 
Two  words  snapped  from  it  :  The  King.  He 
replaced  the  receiver.  His  baton  fell,  and 
the  symphony  of  Santa  Lucia  dribbled  away 
to  rubbish.  He  mouthed  at  his  leader :  The 
King.  He  rose  in  his  chair  and  tapped  ;  and 
the  band  blared  the  first  bar  of  the  National 
Anthem  when  again  the  bell  tinkled.  Again 
he  snatched  the  receiver  :  "  Cut  The  King," 
snapped  a  blasphemous  voice.  "  Keep  going 
on  Cadenza." 

Behind,  things  were  happening. 

"  Where's  that  damn  'lectrician  ?  "  The 
manager  appealed,  exhorted  and  condemned. 
The  electrician,  having  carried  the  bad  news, 
had  vanished ;  but  the  typhoon  of  language 
whirled  him  back  again. 

"  'Sail  right,  guv'nor.  'Sail  right  now. 
We  got  it  under.  You  can  ring  up  again." 

But  it  was  too  late.  The  sudden  dropping 
of  the  curtain,  the  incipient  glide  and  re- 
covery of  the  safety,  the  cessation  and 
hurried  resumption  of  the  music,  .had  dis- 
turbed the  H'ouse.  There  were  sounds  of 
many  moving  feet,  an  uneasy  rustle,  as 
when  a  multitude  of  people  begin  to  pull 
themselves  together.  Then  the  inevitable 
fool  made  the  fool's  remark. 

204 


Gin  a  of  the  Chinatown 

44  There's  something  wrong  somewhere. 
Fire,  shouldn't  wonder." 

That  word  did  it. 

The  house  rose  to  its  feet.  It  swayed  in 
two  vast  presses  to  right  and  left.  A  woman 
screamed.  Feet  scraped  and  stamped.  The 
chuckers-out  bawled  : 

44  Order,  there.  Kepp  yeh  seats,  cancher  1 
Nothing  ain't  wrong  !  " 

The  conductor  rose  and  faced  the  house. 

"  Resume  your  seats,  please.  There's  no 
danger  of  any  kind.  The  band  will  now 
play  Hiawatha.  <4  Give  'em  a  few  chords  1  " 
he  called  to  his  brass  and  drums,  and  half-a- 
dozen  tantararas  drowned  the  noise  of  the 
struggles  and  counter-struggles  of  those  who 
would  go  and  those  who  would  urge  them  to 
stay. 

A  panicky  stripling,  seeing  a  clear  way, 
vaulted  the  partition  between  pit  and  stalls, 
and  was  promptly  floored  by  one  on  the 
jaw  from  Hercules  in  uniform.  He  howled. 
Stalls  struggled  to  see  him,  and  the  pit  pushed 
the  stalls  back.  Many  women  screamed. 
They  were  carried  out,  kicking.  Men  told 
other  men  that  there  was  nothing  the  matter. 
They  clambered  on  seats  to  say  it.  They 
struck  with  fist  and  boot  other  men  who 


Limehouse  Nights 


disagreed  with  them.  The  yellow  and  black 
men  dashed  hither  and  thither,  receiving 
many  blows  but  never  ceasing  to  run.  They 
did  not  know  for  what  or  from  what  they  ran. 
They  ran  because  they  ran.  A  group  of  lads 
raided  the  bar.  They  helped  themselves  and 
they  smashed  many  glasses  and  bottles.  The 
chuckers-out  became  oathful  and  malevolent. 
They  hit  right  and  left. 

In  the  wings,  the  manager  was  dumb.  His 
mouth  had  vomited  the  entire  black  vocabu- 
lary. He  had  nothing  more  to  say.  The 
skirts  of  his  dress  coat  had  the  appearance  of 
two  exhausted  tongues.  The  position  of  his 
tie  showed  that  he  was  a  man  smitten  and 
afflicted :  one  who  had  attempted  large  things 
while  knowing  himself  to  lack  the  force 
necessary  to  achieve  them ;  one  who  had 
climbed  the  steeps  of  pain  to  the  bally  limit ; 
one  who  was  no  longer  a  man  but  a  tortured 
organism. 

"  Billie,"  he  cried  to  the  red-nose  bill- 
topper,  "  Billie,  for  Christ's  sake  go  on,  and 
quiet  'em,  there's  a  good  chap.  This  is  the 
sack  for  me,  if  there's  a  panic." 

"  No  good,  old  boy.  Sorry.  Can't  do 
anything  with  a  mixed  gang  like  yours. 
Nearly  got  the  blasted  bird  just  now." 

206 


Gin  a  oj  the  Chinatown 

"Well  —  you  —  Miss  Gutacre.  For  the 
Lord's  sake — go  on  Give  'em  anything. 
Give  'em  He  tickled  the  Lady's  Fancy" 

"  Oh,  Jack,  old  man,  I  daren't,"  whimpered 
the  stout  soubrette.  "  I  couldn't  hold  'em. 
I've  never  faced  a  gang  like  that.  If  Billie 
won't  go,  I  won't.  'Tain't  fair  to  ask 
me." 

"  Well,  you're  a  couple  of  damn  devils, 
that's  what  you  are — I  beg  pardon — I  mean. 
No,  but,  look  here.  ...  If " 

He  broke  off,  suddenly  aware  that  someone 
was  peremptorily  agitating  his  coat-tails. 

"  What  the  blazes  d'you  want,  kid  ?  " 

"  I'll  go  on,  sir,"  said  Gina  placidly. 

"  You  ?  What  the  heaven  d'you  think  a 
shrimp  like  you  can  do  ?  " 

"  I  can  hold  'em,  sir.  I  know  I  can.  Bet 
you  what  you  like.  Turn  me  loose,  and  see  1 
Ring  the  orchestra  for  La  Maxioce,  one  verse 
and  dance." 

"  Mr  Catanach  I  "  A  boy  in  a  disordered 
uniform  sprang  from  nowhere.  "  You're 
wanted  here — quick." 

The  manager  swung  four  ways  at  once,  un- 
able to  go  one  way  for  thought  of  the  others. 
Then  he  gave  two  orders  to  the  stage 
manager. 


Limchouse  Nights 


"  Ring  through  for  the  Masheesh.  Then 
send  that  kid  on." 

Gina  was  one  of  those  delightful  people  who 
believe  in  impulse  rather  than  in  considera- 
tion. What  she  had  proposed  to  the  manager 
was  an  impulse  of  the  moment ;  it  simply 
didn't  bear  thinking  about.  She  could  hear 
the  complaints,  loud  and  cruel,  of  that  brute 
which  she  had  undertaken  to  tame — she 
heard  scream  and  roar ;  stamp  of  nailed 
feet ;  fury  of  blow  against  blow ;  temper 
against  temper ;  the  fall  of  glass ;  the  wail 
of  the  victim,  the  howl  of  the  aggressor. 

But  now,  through  the  clamour,  there  came 
to  her,  faint  and  sweet  and  far  away,  the 
ecstatic  wail  of  La  Maxixe,  swelling  insist- 
ently as  the  curtain  swung  up.  The  first  bars 
settled  her  fears.  The  music  stole  into  her 
blood  and  possessed  every  nerve  and  tissue  of 
her  eager  little  body.  It  was  in  her  feet  and 
her  hands  and  her  heart.  The  stage  manager 
gave  her  a  gentle  shove. 

"  Get  on,  Kiddie.  You  got  a  rotten  rough 
house.  Good  luck." 

With  a  toss  of  her  yellow  head  and  a  stamp 
of  impetuous  feet  she  dashed  on.  Along  the 
stage  she  charged,  in  animal  grace  and 
bravery,  once,  twice,  with  loose  heel  dancing, 

208 


Gina  of  the  Chinatown 

and  noted  with  approval  that  the  clamour 
was  a  little  less  in  volume  and  that  many  faces 
were  turned  to  the  stage  to  look  at  this  small 
figure,  immature  yet  cunningly  finished. 
With  as  much  clatter  as  her  furious  little 
shoes  would  produce,  she  ran  to  the  back- 
cloth.  The  dust  rose  in  answering  clouds 
and  was  blown  into  the  auditorium,  where  it 
mingled  with  the  opiate  haze  and  was  duly 
swallowed  by  the  gaping  ones.  The  music 
surged  over  the  footlights  in  a  compelling 
flood.  The  chef  d'orchestre  had  caught  the 
idea,  and  she  could  see  that  he  was  helping 
her.  The  fiddles  tossed  it  to  her  in  a  tempest 
of  bows,  the  brass  and  wood-wind  blared  it 
in  a  tornado,  the  drum  insisted  on  it,  and,  like 
a  breaker,  it  seemed  to  rise  up  to  her.  Before 
her  opened  a  cavern  of  purple,  stung  with 
sharp  lamps  in  the  distant  dusks.  It  swayed 
and  growled  and  seemed  to  open  a  horrid 
mouth.  But  between  her  and  it,  she  thanked 
her  Heavenly  Father,  was  the  music,  a  little 
pool  of  dream,  flinging  its  spray  upon  her. 
The  stage  seemed  drenched  in  it  and,  seizing 
the  tactful  moment,  she  raced  down  to  the 
footlights  and  flung  herself  into  it,  caressing 
and  caressed  by  it,  shaking,  as  it  were,  little 
showers  of  sound  from  her  delighted  limbs. 
o  909 


Limehouse  Nights 


Every  phrase  of  its  wistful  message  was  re- 
flected in  that  marvellously  expressive  form, 
rosy  and  slender  and  taut.  You  would  have 
said  that  each  pulse  of  her  body  was  singing 
for  joy  of  it,  and  when  her  light  voice  picked 
up  the  melody  with  : 

"  Oh,  meet  me  in  the  Val-ley 
The  hap-py  Val-ley," 

interpolated  with  back-chat  to  the  front  rows 
of  the  stalls,  there  was  a  movement  towards 
repose  and  attention  to  this  appealing  picture. 

"  Come  on,  Charl,  while  there's  a  chance, 
case  there's  a  fire." 

"  No ;  'alf  a  mo',  Perce.  Ain't  no  fire. 
I'm  going  to  watch  this.  Looks  like  being 
funny.  Got  some  pluck,  y'know,  that 
youngster." 

She  stamped  along  the  stage  in  a  cloud  of 
lace  and  tossing  frock  ;  then,  seeing  that  they 
were  still  moving  and,  in  the  far  reaches, 
struggling,  she  loosened  her  heel  and  suddenly 
— off  went  one  shoe  to  the  wings,  prompt 
side.  Off  went  the  other  to  the  wings,  o.p. 
This  bit  of  business  attracted  the  attention 
of  Charl  and  Perce  and  others.  They  closed 
in.  Now  it  was  heel-and-toe  dancing,  and 
suddenly  a  small  hand  shot  to  her  knee.  Off 

210 


Gina  of  the  Chinatown 

came  a  little  crimson  garter.     With  an  airy 
turn  of  her  bare  and  white-powdered  arm  she 
sent  it  spinning  into  the  stalls. 
"  Scramble  for  it,  darlings  1  " 

"  I'll — tell — you — how  I  love  you — 
Down  in  the  Valley." 

The  wicked  little  head  ogled,  now  here, 
now  there. 

They  scrambled,  and  while  they  scrambled 
and  she  danced,  she  bent  to  her  right  knee, 
and  off  came  a  blue  garter,  and  away  that 
went,  too. 

"  Share  and  share  alike,  old  dears." 

This  time  she  had  the  pit  as  well. 

"  My  word.     She's  a  corker,  eh  ?  " 

"  I  should  say  so." 

"  Quite  right,  Augustus,"  she  cried. 
"  There  isn't  a  fire  here,  but  I'm  hot  enough 
to  start  one.  I  love  my  molten  lava,  but 
what  price  Gina  ?  " 

They  chuckled.  They  cheered.  They 
chi-iked. 

"  Gaw — fancy  a  kid  like  that.  ...  If  she 
was  a  kid  of  mine  I'd  learn  'er  something." 

In  the  vaudeville  phrase,  she  had  got  'em 
with  both  hands. 

The  lights  died  down  again.  The  turmoil 
was  confined  to  the  gallery.  A  lone  chucker- 

211 


Lime/iouse  Nights 


out  implored  them  to  observe  that  everything 
was  all  right  and  "  Order,  please,  for  the 
artiste."  The  Maxixe  swallowed  him  up. 

"  Come  along,  boys ! "  cried  Gina. 
"  Chorus,  this  time.  Now  then — one — 
two 

"Til  ...  Meet  .... 

You  .  .  . 

In  ...  the 

Valley  ..." 

Very  uncertainly  and  timidly  a  few  at  the 
back  of  the  hall  picked  it  up.  They  hummed 
it  in  the  self-conscious  voice  of  the  music-hall 
audience  before  it  is  certain  that  it  is  not 
alone.  The  next  few  lines  were  taken  with 
more  confidence,  and  by  those  in  front  as  well, 
and  the  last  lines,  encouraged  by  the  band 
and  the  shrill  abandon  of  Gina,  they  yelled 
defiantly,  exultingly,  with  whistles  and  cheers 
for  the  kid. 

Those  standing  up  were  pressed  forward  as 
those  behind  strove  to  catch  her  back-chat 
with  stalls  and  orchestra. 

'*  Holler,  boys,"  she  cried,  shaking  her 
dusty  golden  head  from  side  to  side.  "  Holler ! 
All  together — tenors — basses — Worthingtons. 
More  you  holler  the  more  money  I  get.  And 
if  I  don't  take  some  home  to  my  old  man  to 

212 


Gina  of  the  Chinatown 


night  I  shall  get  it  where  Susie  wore  the 
beads  1  Holler,  boys :  it's  my  benefit  1 
Edison-Bell  record  !  " 

And  they  did  holler.  Away  they  went  in 
one  broad  roar.  There  was  no  doubt  as  to 
whether  Gina  had  fulfilled  her  promise  of 
holding  them.  There  was  no  doubt  as  to 
whether  she  had  a  stage  personality.  That 
holler  settled  it.  Gina's  vocation  lay  in  the 
stress  and  sacrifice  of  the  vulgar  world. 

"  My  word,  she's  a  little  goer,  eh  ?  " 

"  You're  right.  At  that  age,  too  !  Fast 
little  cat.  She  wants  a  spanking.  And  if 
she  was  a  kid  o'  mine  she'd  get  it." 

"  How  old  is  she  ?  " 

"  Fourteen,  they  say." 

"  Lord,  she'll  be  a  corker  in  a  year  or  two's 
time." 

"  Year  or  two's  time.  Hot  stuff  now  if  you 
ask  me." 

Perhaps  she  was.  But  she  had  saved  the 
situation.  She  had  averted  a  panic.  She 
had  saved  the  loss  of  life  inseparable  from 
a  theatre  stampede.  And  she  knew  it.  As 
the  audience  settled  down  to  be  amused  by 
her,  or  by  the  next  turn  for  whom  she  had 
prepared  the  way,  she  gave  the  conductor 
the  cue  for  the  coda,  and,  with  a  final  stamp 

813 


Lime/iouse  Nig/its 


of  those  inspired  feet,  she  leapt  into  the  wings, 
where  the  rest  of  the  Casinos  awaited  her. 
She  was  gasping,  with  drawn  face.  Two 
light  blue  stockings,  robbed  of  their  garters, 
were  slipping  half-way  down  her  delicately 
rounded  legs.  The  dust  from  the  stage  had 
gathered  on  her  warm  arms.  She  was  plainly 
"  all  gone."  But  there  was  a  light  in  her  eye 
and  that  in  her  manner  that  shrieked :  "  What 
did  I  tell  'you  ?  " 

The  manager  came  to  meet  her. 

"  You  glorious  kid  !  " 

Pertly  she  looked  up  at  him. 

"  Yes,  ain't  I  ?  Going  to  push  a  boat  out 
for  me  ?  " 

44  Push  a  boat  out  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I'm  dry  after  that.  Mine's  a  claret 
and  soda." 

He  rumpled  his  hair  to  bring  it  into  keeping 
with  his  unhappy  evening- clothes.  He  ges- 
tured operatically.  He  embraced  the  universe. 
He  addressed  the  eternal  verities. 

"  I'm  damned,"  he  exclaimed,  "I'm  damned 
if  I  don't  book  that  kid  for  six  months." 
•  •  •  •  •  •  • 

He  kept  his  promise.  She  was  booked  at 
three  pounds  per  week  for  six  months,  and 
she  thought  she  was  in  heaven.  She  had 

214 


Gina  of  the  Chinatown 

never  dreamed  that  there  was  so  much  money 
in  the  world.  Then  there  was  a  hurrying  to 
and  fro  in  Acacia  Grove.  She  had  to  work 
up  an  act  of  her  own  and  provide  her  own 
make-up  box  and  dresses.  In  the  former  she 
was  assisted  by  Madame  Gilibert  and  the  chef 
d'orchestre ;  in  the  latter  by  Mumdear  and 
the  whole  female  population  of  Acacia  Grove. 
Band  parts  had  to  be  arranged  and  collected, 
each  instrumental  part  secured  in  a  neat  stiff 
cover,  engraved  in  gilt  letters  : 

GINA 

Piccolo 

and 

GINA 

Cornet 

Madame  Gilibert  sent  invitation  cards  to 
all  managers,  and  even  booked  one  of  the 
inch-square  spaces  on  the  back  cover  of  The 
Encore,  where  Gina's  picture  duly  appeared  : 

GINA 

The  Marvellous  Child  Dancer 

The  Pocket  Kate  Vaughan 

All  com.  Gilibert 

amid  that  bewildering  array  of  faces  which 
makes  the  cover  of  that  journal  so  distinctive 
on  the  bookstall  and  so  deeply  interesting  to 
the  student  of  physiognomy  and  of  human 

215 


Limehouse  Nights 


nature.     So  she  started  as  a  gay  fifth-rate 
Vaudevillian. 

A  queer  crowd,  the  fifth-rate  vaudevillians. 
They  are  the  outcasts.  Nobody  wants  them. 
They  live  in  a  settlement  of  their  own,  whose 
boundaries  are  seldom  crossed  by  those 
from  the  sphere  of  respectability.  They  are 
unconsidered.  They  appear ;  they  pass ; 
unmourned,  unhonoured  and  unremembered. 
The  great  actor  of  the  "  legitimate "  is 
knighted ;  the  musical  comedy  star  is  feted 
and  received  everywhere  by  the  Best  People  ; 
even  the  red-nose  star  of  the  halls  is  well  seen. 
But  the  unsuccessful  amusers  of  the  public 
— their  portion  is  weeping  and  gnashing  of 
teeth.  They  are  by  turns  gay  and  melan- 
choly, with  the  despairing  gaiety  of  the 
abandoned,  the  keen  melancholy  of  the 
temperamental.  They  are  the  people  who 
bring  us  laughter,  who  help  us  to  forget. 
They  invent  and  sing  songs  that  put  a  girdle 
round  the  globe,  that  bring  men  cheerfully 
together  in  Singapore  and  Tobago  and  Hono- 
lulu and  Trinidad,  and  are  shouted  under 
skies  East  and  West  and  South ;  and  their 
reward  is  neither  here  nor  there  ;  not  applause 
or  glory  or  motor  cars  or  a  hundred  pounds  a 
week.  No ;  four  pounds  a  week  is  theirs, 

216 


Gina  of  the  Chinatown 

with  reduced  rates  on  the  railway  and  ex- 
penses double  those  of  any  workman  or  clerk. 
To  the  thoughtful  person  there  is  something 
infinitely  pathetic  in  this  ;  but  by  the  mercy 
of  God  your  fifth-rate  vaudevillians  are  not 
thoughtful  people.  They  live  in,  for,  and  by 
the  moment ;  and,  be  their  lives  what  they 
may,  they  are  happy ;  for  theirs  is  the  pro- 
found wisdom  of  perpetual  youth. 

Gina's  six  months  were  filled  either  at  the 
Blackwall  house  or  at  other  independent 
halls,  not  controlled  by  the  syndicates,  to 
which  her  manager  leased  her.  When  not 
working — for  the  twenty-six  weeks  were 
to  be  filled  as  and  when  she  was  called — she 
spent  her  time  in  inspecting  other  shows  and 
dancers,  by  the  simple  use  of  her  professional 
card.  From  time  to  time  she  varied  her  turn, 
as  dictated  by  her  own  moods  and  the  vagaries 
of  the  management.  Sometimes  she  would 
dance  excerpts  from  Coppdlia  or  Sylvia ; 
sometimes  Dvorak's  Humoreske  or  VAutomne 
Bacchanale,  or  odds  and  ends  from  French 
and  Russian  music.  But  it  was  the  sparkling 
sun-soaked  melodies  of  the  South,  laughing 
of  golden  days  and  silver  nights,  white  towns 
and  green  seas,  that  really  held  her ;  for  to  her 
music  was  melody,  melody,  melody — laughter, 

217 


Limehouse  Nights 


quick  tears,  the  graceful  surface  of  things ; 
movement  and  festal  colour.  By  instinctive 
choice  she  had  already  taken  to  her  heart  all 
Italian  music — Pagliacci,  La  Bohdme,  Rusti- 
cana,  Manon,  and  much  of  the  humbler 
Neapolitan  stuff  that  somehow  finds  its  way 
to  London.  And  what  music  was  to  her,  so 
was  life,  and  so  she  interpreted  it  to  others. 

Whenever  she  was  billed,  all  Poplar  crowded 
to  see  her ;  and  there  are  still  many  who  re- 
member with  high  gratitude  this  lovely  flower 
from  their  own  gutters,  and  the  little  escapes 
from  their  sorrows  that  she  found  for  them. 
They  still  remember  how,  passing  them  in  the 
street,  she,  clear  and  steady  as  the  dew  at 
dawn,  would  but  look  upon  them  with  roguish 
nonchalance,  compel  smiles  from  them  and 
leave  them  feeling  richer  and  stronger. 

"  That  girl's  got  a  heart,"  they  would  say. 
She  shook  them  from  pondering  on  their 
problems,  lifted  them  into  a  rare,  bold  atmos- 
phere, taught  them  how  to  laugh  and  how  to 
feast ;  carried  to  their  hearts  little  bouquets 
of  solace  smelling  of  April  and  May.  She 
seemed  to  be  born  afresh  each  morning,  so 
sharp  and  undimmed  were  her  delight  and 
wonder  in  life.  She  lit  the  whole  of  Poplar 
with  her  personality.  The  flashing  of  her 

218 


Gina  of  the  Chinatown 

number  in  the  electric  screen  was  the  signal 
for  handfuls  of  applause.  Even  those  of  her 
audience  who  had  never  before  seen  her  went 
about  their  routine  next  day  feeling  better  by 
remembering  her.  She  splashed  colour  on 
their  drabbery.  She  forced  them  to  forget 
old  fusty  creeds  of  conduct,  and  awoke  echoes 
in  them  of  things  that  should  not  have  been 
forgotten ;  fused  into  the  thin  body  of  their 
days  something  ripe  and  full  and  clustering ; 
something,  as  they  said,  that  gave  'em  things 
to  think  about  where  before  they  had  been 
fed  up.  She  tempted  them  with  the  lure  of 
the  moment,  and  they  followed  and  found 
that  it  was  good.  She  opened  new  doors  to 
them,  showing  them  the  old  country  to  which 
to-day  excursions  are  almost  forbidden ;  the 
country  of  the  dear  brown  earth  and  the 
naked  flesh,  of  the  wine- cup  and  flowers  and 
kisses  and  Homeric  laughter.  She  could  have 
made  a  Calvinist  laugh  at  sin.  Young  and 
wise  and  understanding,  she  would  sprinkle 
upon  it  the  dew  of  her  kindly  smile,  and  what 
had  been  bare  and  reprehensible  a  moment 
ago  was  then  something  tender  and  full  of 
grace.  Through  her,  all  little  lapses  and  way- 
wardnesses became  touched  with  delicacy. 
We  live,  we  love,  we  die.  A  little  while  we 

219 


Lime/iouse  Nights 


sing  in  the  sun,  and  then  ...  we  are  gone. 
So  let's  be  kind  to  one  another  ;  let's  forgive 
everything  ;  there's  always  an  excuse.  That 
was  the  Ginarian  philosophy. 

Twice  every  night  she  danced,  and  never 
once  did  she  seem  to  "  slack."  After  the 
applause  welcoming  her  number,  silence 
would  fall  on  the  house.  The  hall  would  be 
plunged  sharply  in  a  velvet  gloom,  through 
which  the  lights  of  the  orchestra  would  gleam 
with  subtle  premonition.  At  a  quick  bell  the 
band  would  blare  the  chord  on,  and  the  curtain 
would  rush  up  on  a  dark  blank  stage.  Then 
from  between  the  folds  of  the  back-cloth 
would  steal  a  wee  slip  of  a  child  in  white,  to 
stand  poised  like  a  startled  faun.  Three  pale 
spot-lights  would  swim  from  roof  and  wings, 
drift  a  moment,  then  pick  her  up,  focusing 
her  gleaming  hair  and  alabaster  arms. 

With  the  conductor's  tap  the  hall  would  be 
flooded  with  the  ballet  music  of  Delibes,  and 
the  dance  would  begin,  and  Gina  would  turn, 
for  our  delight,  the  loveliest  pair  of  legs  in 
Poplar.  On  the  high  vast  stage,  amid  the 
crashing  speed  of  the  music,  and  the  spatter- 
ing fire  of  the  side-drums,  she  would  seem  so 
fragile,  so  lost,  so  alone  that  one  almost  ached 
for  her.  But  if  she  were  alone  at  first,  it  was 

220 


Gin  a  of  the  Chinatown 

not  so  when  she  danced.  At  the  first  step 
she  seemed  to  people  the  stage  with  little 
companies  of  dream.  She  gave  us  dance — 
and  more  than  dance ;  no  business  of  trick 
and  limelight,  but  Infant  Joy  materialised, 
the  lovelier  because  of  its  very  waywardness. 
She  was  a  poem.  She  was  the  child: — 
naughty  and  bold  and  hungry  for  the  beauty 
of  life — and,  through  her,  the  audience  would 
touch  finger-tips  with  all  that  was  generously 
pure  and  happy.  Many  calls  she  would  have 
at  the  end  of  her  turn,  and  the  people  thought 
they  were  applauding  her  skill  as  a  dancer. 
But  a  few  of  us  knew  better. 

There  may  have  been  finer  artists.  There 
may  haye  been  more  finished  dancers.  There 
may  have  been  more  beautiful  children.  But 
certainly  never  was  there  another  woman  or 
child  who  so  touched  her  surroundings  with 
herself,  so  held  her  audience  as  to  send  people 
away,  full — they  knew  not  how — of  the  in- 
tense glee  of  living.  This  little  girl  spoke  to 
them  in  a  language  they  knew,  and  thereby 
achieved  the  highest  purpose  of  all  art ;  she 
made  others  happy  and  strong.  She  changed 
their  smiles  to  scowls ;  made  them  glad  to 
meet  one  another.  Strangers  were  known  to 
speak  to  strangers  under  the  spell  of  her 

231 


Limefiouse  Nights 


dancing.  Everything  that  is  young  and 
fresh  and  lovely  and  brave  was  in  her  message. 
She  did  so  enjoy  it  all.  That  elfish  little  face, 
that  lyrical  body,  and  those  twinkling  toes 
made  for  the  manager  of  the  dirty  hall  a 
small  fortune.  Nightly  she  flung  herself  in 
delicate  abandon  through  her  dances,  and  her 
laugh  thrilled  and  tickled  you  as  does  the 
best  and  gayest  music.  It  was  not  the 
laughter  of  frivolity,  for  frivolity  is  but  the 
corpse  of  joy  ;  but  that  finer  laughter  ex- 
pressing the  full  acceptance  of  life  and  all 
that  it  gives  us  of  tears  and  laughter  ;  hoping 
nothing,  fearing  nothing,  but  rejoicing,  with 
sweet  cynicism,  in  everything.  It  is  the  most 
heroic  front  that  man  can  present  to  the  gods 
that  be,  and  Gina  taught  us  what  no  school 
could  teach  us ;  she  taught  us  how  to  wear 
this  armour  and,  with  its  protection,  to  play 
the  great  game. 

All  Poplar  loved  her.  The  manager  loved 
her,  the  stage  hands  loved  her,  the  door- 
keeper loved  her,  even  her  agent  loved  her — 
but  unless  you  are  of  the  profession,  you  will 
not  appreciate  the  boundless  significance  of 
that.  And  the  conductor  .  .  .  the  young 
conductor  worshipped  her.  He  had  been  on 
his  knees  to  her  ever  since  that  great  first 

222 


Gin  a  of  the  Chinatown 

night.  It  was  delicious  agony  for  him  to 
conduct  for  her.  It  was  an  irritation  when 
her  turn  did  not  get  the  masses  of  applause 
that  belonged  to  her ;  it  was  a  still  deeper 
irritation  when  the  houseful  of  louts  roared 
their  appreciation.  At  nights  he  wept  for 
her.  Her  face  was  a  flower  which  he  watered 
with  his  tears,  and  day  by  day  she  grew 
for  him  more  and  more  lovely  and  to  be 
desired.  He  had  told  her  that  he  was  a 
broken-hearted  man,  since  the  only  woman 
he  had  loved,  when  he  was  eighteen,  had 
deceived  him.  Gina  thereafter  named  him 
the  Scorched  Butterfly,  and  would  solace 
him  with  kisses. 

"  Makes  me  sick,"  he  used  to  say  to  his 
first  fiddle,  "  when  I  think  that  anything  so — 
you  know — kind  of  ...  lovely  ...  as  that 
should  ever  have  to  die.  To  think  that  all 
that  ...  er  ...  you  know  .  .  .  glorious 
little  body  .  .  .  should  ever  ...  er  ... 
stop  living.  Don't  seem  right.  Seems  like 
a  blasted  outrage  to  me.  Ought  to  live  for 
ever — anything  as  lovely  as  that.  Gives  me 
the  fair  fantods.  And  yet — of  course — she 
will  die,  same  as  all  the  blasted  clods  and 
rotters  like  you  and  me.  Before  long,  too, 
I  shouldn't  wonder.  Got  a  kind  of  feeling 

223 


Limehouse  Nights 


that  she  will,  somehow.  Every  time  I  look 
at  her  I  think  of  it.  Makes  me  damn  sick 
with  things.  Wonder  what  it's  all  for — all 
this  damn  game  of  living  ?  " 

What  Gina  did  to  Poplar  generally,  she 
did  also,  in  a  more  exact  degree,  to  her 
immediate  circle.  She  took  Acacia  Grove  in 
hand  and  woke  it  up.  She  taught  it  how  to 
release  the  flesh  from  its  bondage  and  revel 
in  the  bliss  of  mere  living.  There  were 
suppers — or  rather  Suppers — with  the  boys 
from  one  or  other  of  the  halls  as  guests,  and 
cheap  wine  instead  of  beer,  and  sometimes  a 
sinister  little  bottle  of  liqueur ;  and  kisses  and 
caresses  were  no  longer  venial  sins,  but  little 
delicacies  that  went  round  the  tables  at  these 
festivals  as  naturally  as  the  cruet.  And 
because  Gina  smiled  and  extolled  it,  they 
approved ;  and  how  they  hastened  to  con- 
demn and  abolish  all  that  upon  which  she 
frowned !  She  first  started  on  Mumdear, 
and  brought  her  away  from  the  seventies 
and  eighties  into  these  times. 

"  Now,  Mumdear,  pull  yourself  together, 
and  listen  to  your  little  Gina.  In  some  places 
the  younger  generation  knocks  at  the  door, 
but  in  this  house  it's  going  to  knock  the  bally 
door  down  and  walk  right  in.  You're  out- 

224 


Gin  a  of  the  Chinatown 

moded.  You've  got  to  sit  up  and  take  notice 
of  things  more,  especially  of  me.  Don't  be  a 
back  number.  Come  forward  to  the  front 
of  the  bookstall.  Burn  that  bonnet.  Sell 
those  clothes.  In  a  word,  pull  yourself  to- 
gether. If  you  don't,  I  shall  kill  you,  and 
pin  you  to  a  cork,  wings  extended." 

And  when  Mumclear  protested  that  really 
Gina  was  too  young  to  talk  like  that,  Gina 
took  no  notice. 

*'  Fourteen  is  as  fourteen  does,  Mumdear ; 
and  what  I  don't  know  about  things  a  girl 
ought  to  know  has  been  torn  out  of  the  book. 
I've  been  through  things  with  a  small  tooth- 
comb,  and  I  know  what's  there.  I  know  the 
words  and  the  music.  I've  read  the  book 
and  seen  the  pictures.  I've  got  perfect  con- 
trol of  the  ball.  Brace  up,  old  darling,  and 
watch  your  Gina.  It's  a  wise  mother  who 
knows  more  than  her  own  daughter." 

Thereafter  there  were  no  more  newspapers 
for  tablecloths  ;  no  more  scramble  suppers ; 
no  more  slovenliness ;  no  more  cheap  and 
nasty  food;  no  more  stodgy  teas.  The  art 
of  the  Bertello  home  at  that  time  was  repre- 
sented by  oleographs  after  originals  of  Marcus 
Stone  and  the  Hon.  John  Collier.  Gina  burnt 
them,  and  hung  up  cheap  but  serviceable 
p  225 


Limehouse  Nights 


reproductions  of  Whistler,  Manet  and  Renoir. 
She  taught  Mumdear  to  be  truly  Bohemian 
and  to  entertain  the  boys  from  the  profession. 
Mumdear  blossomed  anew.  One  final  pro- 
test she  ventured. 

"  But,  Gina,  duckie,  we  can't  afford  to  be 
ikey." 

44  Ikey  ?  "  snapped  Gina.  "  Who's  going 
to  be  ikey,  my  lamb  ?  It  isn't  a  question  of 
affording  or  of  being  ikey.  It's  a  question  of 
being  comfortable.  It  won't  cost  any  more 
to  have  flowers  on  the  table  and  to  eat  some- 
thing besides  beef  and  mutton  —  probably 
less.  And  as  for  being  ikey — well,  when  you 
catch  me  going  up  in  the  air  I'll  be  much 
obliged  if  you'll  stick  pins  in  me  so's  I  can 
explode." 

As  she  ruled  Mumdear,  so  did  she  rule 
others.  At  fourteen  she  had  the  mature 
carriage  of  womanhood — a  very  valuable 
asset  in  her  profession.  She  could  hold  her 
own  everywhere  in  the  matter  of  oack-chat, 
and  there  were  none  who  attempted  liberties 
a  second  time.  It  is  doubtful  if  she  had  ever, 
at  any  age,  had  a  period  of  innocence,  using 
the  word  in  the  sense  of  ignorance.  She  had 
that  curious  genius  for  life  by  which  the 
chosen  divine  its  mysteries  immediately  where 

226 


Gina  of  the  Chinatown 

others  perforce  wait  on  long  years  of  experi- 
ence. As  she  herself  expressed  it,  she  knew 
her  way  about  all  the  streets  and  wasn't 
going  to  be  driven  down  the  wrong  one  by 
any  son  of  a  gun.  She  might  not  be  clever, 
but  she  thanked  God  she  was  clean. 

Thus  for  twelve  months  she  scattered 
laughter  and  love  and  kindness  around  Poplar, 
Shadwell,  Limehouse  and  Blackwall,  carolling 
along  her  amiable  way,  joy  as  her  counsellor, 
courage  as  her  guide.  Her  curl-clad  face  at 
this  time  carried  the  marks  of  the  fatigue 
peculiar  to  those  temperamental  subjects  who 
spend  themselves  to  the  last  ounce  in  what- 
ever they  set  their  hearts  to — be  it  amuse- 
ment, or  love,  or  work.  They  live  at  top  pitch 
because  nothing  else  is  possible  to  them, 
Gina's  face,  drawn  though  it  was,  and  per- 
manently flushed,  danced  always  with  elfin 
lights,  and  never  were  her  limbs  in  repose. 
Even  in  sleep  she  was  strangely  alive,  with 
the  hectic,  self -consuming  energy  of  the 
precocious. 

Then,  as  suddenly  as  she  appeared,  she 
disappeared,  and  over  everything  there  fell 
a  blank  dismay.  The  light  died  from  trie 
streets.  Laughter  was  chilled.  The  joy  of 
living  withered  as  at  a  curse.  Something 

227 


Limehouse  Nights 


tender  and  gay  and  passionate  had  been  with 
us  ;  something  strange  and  exquisitely  sweet 
was  gone  from  us ;  and  we  grew  sharply  old 
and  went  about  our  work  without  any  song 
or  jest  or  caress.  Only  we  thanked  God  and 
the  grey  skies  that  it  had  been  given  to  us  to 
recognise  it  while  it  was  there. 

There  was  some  speculation,  and  at  last, 
because  she  was  so  much  a  part  of  Poplar 
and  we  of  her,  the  truth  was  made  known 
sorrowfully  and  reverently. 

A  hurried  night  journey  in  a  cab  to  a  lying- 
in  hospital ;  and  this  lovely  child,  fifteen 
years  old,  crept  back  to  the  bluebell  or  the 
daffodil  which  had  lent  her  to  us.  All  that 
remains  to  us  is  her  memory  and  that  brave 
philosophy  of  hers  which  was  sobbed  out  to  a 
few  friends  from  the  little  white  bed  in  the 
maternity  home. 

"  Life's  very  beautiful.  It's  worth  having, 
however  it  ends.  There's  so  much  in  it. 
Wine  and  things  to  eat.  Things  to  wear. 
Shops  to  look  at.  Coming  home  to  supper. 
Meeting  people.  Giving  parties.  Books  to 
read.  Music  to  hear. 

"  I  think  we  ought  to  be  so  happy.  And 
*o  kind.  Because  people  suffer  such  a  lot, 
don't  they  ? 

228 


Gina  of  the  Chinatown 

"  I've  not  been  bad,  Mumdear.  I'm  only 
in  love  with  everything  and  everybody. 
They're  all  so  ...  oh,  sweet — and  all  that. 
I'm  not  bad.  I've  only  loved  life,  and  when 
things  tempted  me  I  said  Yes.  It's  so  easy 
to  say  No  to  temptation.  Any  coward  can  do 
that.  Kiss  me  a  little,  Mum.  I'm  so  tired. 

"  I  hope  I  haven't  been  mean  or  greedy  or 
cruel.  I  love  the  boys  and  girls  I  work  with, 
and  I  love  the  music  I  dance  to,  and  .  .  . 
Poplar. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I've  kept  the  Ten 
Commandments.  Don't  much  care.  But  if 
ever  I've  hurt  anyone,  if  ever  I've  been  un- 
kind, I  hope  they' 11  forgive  me.  Because  .  .  . 
I  ...  love  them  so.  ... 

"  Mumdear  .  .  .  ask  them  for  some  more 
of  that  cocaine  .  .  .  cos  ...  it  ...  it 
hurts  .  .  .  so." 

There  is  a  grave  in  East  Ham  cemetery 
which  the  suns  and  showers  seem  to  love,  so 
softly  they  fall  about  it.  The  young  musical 
director  who  had  presaged  her  ending  and 
expressed  himself  as  feeling  sick  that  so 
fragrant  a  flower  should  ever  come  to  die, 
leaves  bunches  of  violets  there  once  a  week. 
For  it  was  he  who  brought  her  to  the  dust. 


229 


The  Knight-Errant 


YOU  may  know  Henry  Wigg'n  on  sight : 
Henry,  the  sloppily  robed,  the  slippery 
faced,  with  hands  deep  in  pockets, 
shuffling  along  the  Limehouse  streets,  hugging 
the  walls  in  modest  self-effacement,  one  eye 
sweeping  the  scene  before  him,  the  other 
creeping  sinuously  to  the  rear ;  Henry,  the 
copper's  nark,  the  simple,  the  unsuspecting, 
knowing  not  the  ways  of  deceit  or  the  speech 
of  the  unrighteous.  But  Henry  has  of  late 
become  outmoded.  After  fifteen  years  of 
narking  he  finds  that  he  is  getting  stale ;  he 
is  a  back  number.  A  new  generation  has 
arisen,  and  with  it  a  new  school  of  nark 
diplomacy  with  principles  very  complex. 
Business  has  fallen  off,  the  slops  no  longer 
trust  him  ;  and  the  exhilarating  pastime  of 
narking  has  become,  for  Henry,  a  weariness 
of  the  flesh.  Time  back,  his  hands,  as  a 
nark,  were  clean ;  but  in  these  troublous 
days  he  must  perforce  touch  jobs  which,  in 
his  senescent  youth,  would  have  revolted  his 
quick  sense  of  nark  honour. 

His  downfall  began  with  that  utter  aban- 
donment of  principle  in  the  Poppy  Gardens 
excitement.  And,  if  you  possess  a  sufficiently 
adventurous  spirit  to  penetrate  into  those 
strange  streets  where  the  prudent  never  so 

233 


Limehouse  Nights 


much  as  peep,  and  to  hazard  inquiries  con- 
cerning Henry  the  Blahsted  Nark,  the  full 
explanation,  which  follows  below,  will  be 
given  you — though  in  an  amplified  form, 
richer  in  the  vivid  adjective. 

It  is  now  known  that  it  was  no  professional 
point  that  led  him  to  slide  back  on  the  one 
person  in  the  world  who  was  more  to  him 
than  gold  or  silver  or  many  beers.  It  was 
something  more  tremendous,  more  incom- 
prehensible, more  .  .  .  you  know.  The  two 
people  concerned  are  unfortunately  inacces- 
sible to  the  general  public  and  even  to  the 
ubiquitous  pressman.  Both  of  them,  in  their 
different  ways,  shrink  from  notoriety  with  a 
timidity  as  sharp  as  that  which  distinguishes 
the  lady  novelist.  But  pressmen  are  not  the 
only  people  who  can  get  stories.  Here  is 
Henry's. 

Henry  had  a  brother,  a  dearly  loved  com- 
panion, whom,  from  infancy,  he  had  cherished 
with  a  love  that  is  not  usual  among  brothers 
under  the  Poplar  arches.  For  this  brother 
he  had,  when  a  nipper,  pinched  from  coffee- 
stalls,  so  that  he  should  not  go  supperless 
to  bed.  He  had  "raked"  and  "  glimmed," 
and  on  two  occasions  he  was  caught  doing 
honest  work  for  his  young  brother.  The 

234 


The  Knight-Errant 


one  soft  spot  in  his  heart  was  for  brother 
Bert.  But  this  brother  .  .  .  Alas,  how  often 
does  one  find  similar  cases  in  families  !  Two 
brothers  may  be  brought  up  amid  the  same 
daily  surroundings,  under  the  same  careful 
parentage,  enjoying  each  the  same  advan- 
tages. Yet,  while  one  pursues  the  bright  and 
peaceful  path  of  virtue,  the  other  will  deviate 
to  the  great  green  ocean  of  iniquity.  It  is 
idle  to  shirk  the  truth.  Let  the  sordid  fact 
be  admitted.  While  Henry  Wiggin  was  a 
copper's  nark,  brother  Bert  was  a  burglar. 
He  stole  things,  and  sold  them  to  Mr  Fence 
Cohen  round  the  corner,  and  was  not  ashamed. 
Henry  knew  that  this  was  wrong,  and  the 
dishonesty  of  his  brother  was  a  load  to  him. 
Often  he  had  sought  to  lead  those  erring  feet 
into  the  Straight  Way,  but  his  fond  efforts 
were  repulsed. 

"  'Enery — if  yeh  don't  stop  shootin'  yeh 
mouth  at  me,  I'll  push  yeh  blasted  face  in  1  " 

On  the  great  night  when  Romance  peeped 
coyly  into  the  life  of  Henry  Wiggin,  he  and 
Bert  were  noisily  guzzling  fried  fish  and 
taters  and  draught  stout  in  their  one-room 
cottage,  back  of  the  Poplar  arches — Number  2 
Poppy  Gardens.  Poppy  Gardens,  slumbrous 
and  alluring  as  its  name  may  be,  is  neither 

235 


Limehouse  Nights 


slumbrous  nor  alluring.  Rather,  it  is  full  of 
quick  perils  for  the  unwary.  It  has  not  only 
its  record  of  blood,  but  also  its  record  of 
strange  doings  which  can  only  be  matched 
by  the  records  of  certain  byways  about 
Portman  Square.  The  only  difference  is 
that  in  the  one  place  you  have  dirt,  decay, 
and  yellow  and  black  faces.  In  the  other, 
you  have  luxury  and  gorgeous  appurtenance. 

Wherefore  it  was  stupid,  stupid,  with  that 
ostrich-like  stupidity  that  distinguishes  the 
descendants  of  noble  families  who  have  inter- 
married with  their  kind  ;  I  say  it  was  stupid 
for  Lady  Dorothy  Grandolin  to  choose  this, 
of  all  places,  for  her  first  excursion  into 
slum-land,  in  order  to  gather  material  for  her 
great  work  :  Why  I  am  a  Socialist :  a  Con- 
fession of  Faith  ;  Together  with  some  Proposals 
for  Ameliorating  the  Condition  of  the  Very 
Poor  ;  with  Copious  Appendices  by  the  Fabian 
Society.  Far  better  might  she  have  fared  in 
the  Dials ;  in  Lambeth ;  even  in  Hoxton. 
But  no ;  it  must  be  Limehouse — and  at 
night.  Really,  one  feels  that  she  deserved 
all  she  got. 

With  no  other  escort  than  a  groom — who 
knew  a  chap  down  here — she  stood  in  West 
India  Dock  Road,  near  the  Asiatics'  Home ; 

336 


The  Knight-Errant 


and,  to  be  strictly  impartial,  she  was  a  rather 
effective  bit  of  colour,  so  far  as  raiment  went. 
You  have  certainly  seen  her  photographs  in 
the  sixpenny  weeklies,  or  reproductions,  in 
The  Year's  Pictures,  of  those  elegant  studies 
by  Sargent  and  Shannon.  It  cannot  be  said 
that  she  is  beautiful,  though  the  post  card 
public  raves  about  her ;  for  her  beauty  is 
classical  and  Greek,  which  means  that  she  is 
about  as  interesting  as  a  hard-boiled  egg. 
However,  if  we  acknowledge  her  divinity 
we  must  regret  that  she  should  ever  have 
embraced  the  blue-serge  god,  and  regret 
still  more  that  her  waxen  fingers  should  have 
itched  with  the  fever  of  propagandist  author- 
ship. However,  she  was  determined  to  do  a 
book  on  the  Very  Poor  ;  nothing  would  stop 
her.  Her  little  soul  blazed  in  a  riot  of  fine 
fire  for  the  cause.  Yesterday,  it  was  Auction  ; 
the  day  before  it  was  Settlements ;  to-day, 
the  Very  Poor.  And  in  papa's  drawing-room 
there  was  no  doubt  that  the  Very  Poor  was  a 
toy  to  be  played  with  very  prettily  ;  for  it  is 
the  one  success  of  these  people  that  they  can 
do  things  with  an  air. 

So  she  stood  in  the  damp  darkness  of 
Little  Asia,  skirts  daintily  aloof,  while  the 
groom  sought  for  the  chap  he  knew  down 

237 


Limehouse  Nights 


here.  She  felt  that  it  must  be  a  queer  and 
inspiring  situation  to  know  a  man  down  here. 
Yet  Dixon  seemed  to  think  nothing  of  it. 
It  seemed  too  frightfully  awful  that  people 
should  live  here.  Never  mind ;  Socialism 
was  growing  day  by  day  among  the  right 

people,  and 

Then  Dixon  returned  with  the  chap  he 
knew  down  there,  and  Lady  Dorothy  thought 
of  Grosvenor  Square,  and  shrank  as  she  viewed 
their  cicerone.  For  he  was  Ho  Ling,  fat  and 
steamy  ;  and  he  sidled  to  her  out  of  the  mist, 
threatening  and  shrinking,  with  that  queer 
mixture  of  self-conceit  and  self-contempt 
which  is  the  Chinese  character.  It  may  be 
that  Dixon  was  up  to  something  in  bringing 
his  mistress  here ;  one  never  knows.  But 
here  she  was,  and  here  was  the  yellow  Ho 
Ling  ;  and,  with  a  feminine  fear  of  cowardice, 
she  nerved  herself  to  go  through  with  it.  She 
had  heard  that  the  Chinese  quarter  offered 
splendid  material  for  studies  in  squalor,  as 
well  as  an  atmosphere  of  the  awful  and 
romantic.  Her  first  glances  did  not  encourage 
her  in  this  idea ;  for  these  streets  and  people 
are  only  awful  and  romantic  to  those  who  have 
awful  and  romantic  minds.  Lady  Dorothy 
hadn't.  She  had  only  awful  manners. 

238 


The  Knight-Errant 


With   Ho    Ling   in    front,    Lady   Dorothy 
following,  and  Dixon  in  the  rear,  they  crossed 
the  road. 
•  •••••• 

Henry  Wiggin  lifted  the  jug  from  the 
coverless  deal  table,  inverted  it  on  his  face, 
held  it  for  a  moment,  then  set  it  down  with 
a  crack,  voluptuously  rolling  his  lips.  That 
was  all  right,  that  was.  Heaven  help  the 
chaps  what  hadn't  got  no  beer  that  night ; 
that's  all  he'd  got  to  say.  He  was  leading 
from  this  to  a  few  brief  but  sincere  observa- 
tions to  his  brother  Bert  on  the  prices  of 
malt  liquors,  when,  on  the  grimy  window, 
which,  in  the  fashion  of  the  district,  stood 
flush  with  the  pavement,  came  two  or  three 
secret  taps.  Each  started  ;  each  in  different 
ways.  Henry  half  rose  from  his  chair,  and 
became  at  once  alert,  commanding,  standing 
out.  Bert's  glance  shot  to  half-a-dozen  points 
at  once,  and  he  seemed  to  dissolve  into  him- 
self. For  a  few  seconds  the  room  was  chok- 
ingly silent.  Then,  with  a  swift,  gliding 
movement,  Henry  reached  the  window,  and, 
as  Bert  flung  back  from  the  light's  radius, 
he  stealthily  opened  it.  It  creaked  yearn- 
ingly, and  immediately  a  yellow  face  filled 
its  vacancy. 

239 


Limekouse  Nights 


"  Ullo.  It  is  I — Ho  Ling.  Lady  here — 
all  same  lah-de-dah — going — how  you  say — 
slumming.  Parted  half-a-bar.  Wants  to 
see  inside  places.  Will  my  serene  friend  go 
halves  if  she  come  into  here,  and  part  more 
half -bars  ?  How  you  say  ?  " 

"Wotto.  I'm  on.  Wait  'alf-a-jiff."  He 
closed  the  window,  and  made  for  the  door. 
"  'S  all  right,  Bert.  On'y  a  toff  gointer  shell 
out.  Wants  to  squint  round  our  place.  We 
go  halves  with  Chinky  whatever  she  parts." 

'*  Sure  it's  a  toff  ?  "  in  a  voice  meant  to  be 
a  whisper  but  suggesting  the  friction  of  sand- 
paper. "  Sure  it  ain't  a  plant  ?•" 

"  Course  it  ain't.  Old  'O  Ling's  all  right." 
He  fiddled  with  the  handle  of  the  door,  opened 
it,  and  stood  back,  only  mildly  interested  in 
the  lah-de-dah  who  was  invading  the  privacy 
of  his  home.  If  he  had  any  feeling  at  all,  it 
was  a  slight  impatience  of  this  aloof  creature 
of  the  world  above ;  the  sort  of  mild  irrita- 
tion that  the  convicts  feel  when  they  stand 
on  railway  stations,  the  objects  of  the  curious 
stares  of  hundreds  of  people  who  are  at 
liberty  and  think  nothing  of  being  so. 

There  was  a  moment's  hesitation ;  then, 
into  the  fishy,  beery,  shaggy  atmosphere  of 
the  room  stole  a  whiff  of  the  ampler  ether  and 

340 


The  Knight-Errant 


diviner  air  of  Mayfair.  Into  the  arc  of  yellow 
candle-light,  into  the  astonished  gaze  of 
Henry,  and  into  the  professionally  quickened 
stare  of  Bert,  stepped  the  warm,  human 
actuality  of  A  Duke's  Daughter,  from  last 
year's  academy.  Behind  her,  in  the  doorway, 
calm  and  inscrutable  as  a  Pentonville 
warder,  stood  Ho  Ling,  careful  to  be  a 
witness  of  the  amount  parted.  Behind  him, 
in  the  deep,  dark  gloom  of  the  archway,  was 
the  groom. 

Lady  Dorothy  gazed  around.  She  saw  a 
carpetless  room,  furnished  only  with  a  bed 
on  the  floor,  a  couple  of  chairs,  and  a  table 
littered  with  fried  fish  and  chips  and  a  couple 
of  stone  jugs.  In  the  elusive  twilight,  it  was 
impossible  to  obtain  a  single  full  view,  and 
the  bobbing  candle  made  this  still  more 
difficult.  By  the  table  stood  Henry,  in  all 
his  greasy  glory,  a  tasteful  set-off  to  the  walls 
which  dripped  with  moisture  from  the  railway 
above. 

Oh  1  And  again — oh  1  And  did  people 
really  live  down  here  ?  Was  it  allowed  ? 

Didn't  the  authorities ?  Was  this  all  there 

was — one  room?     Did  they  eat  and  sleep 
and  do  everything  here  ?     And  was  this  all 
the  furniture  ?     Really  ?     But  however  did 
Q  241 


Umehouse  Nights 


they  manage  ?  Did  they  really  mean  to 
say  .  .  .  But  they  couldn't,  surely  .  .  .  How 
.  .  .  well  .  .  .  Was  that  the  bed — that  thing 
over  there  ?  And  had  they  no  ...  Dear- 
dear.  How  terrible.  How 

Oh  !  What  was  that  ?  A  rat  ?  A  RAT  ? 
Ugh  !  How  horrid  !  She  skipped  lightly  aside, 
and  as  she  did  so  the  bracelets  on  her  wrists 
jingled,  and  the  small  chatelaine  bag  at  her 
waist  jingled,  and  her  wrist- watch  and  the 
brooch  at  her  alabaster  throat  were  whipped 
to  a  thousand  sparkling  fragments  by  the 
thin  light.  And  as  they  sang,  Bert's  ears 
tingled,  even  as  a  war-horse's  at  tiie  noise  of 
battle. 

He  considered  the  situation.  From  the 
outer  world  came  little  sound.  The  be- 
wildering maze  of  arches  shut  them  com- 
pletely from  the  rattle  of  the  main  streets, 
and  Poppy  Gardens  was  deserted.  A  train 
rumbled  heavily  over  the  arches — a  long 
train  carrying  a  host  of  woes  that  grumbled 
and  whined.  It  passed,  and  left  a  stillness 
more  utter.  It  was  simply  tempting  Pro- 
vidence to  let  the  occasion  pass.  It  was 
simply  asking  for  it. 

He  looked;  he  saw;  he  appreciated.  His 
fingers  moved.  On  her  entry  he  had  been 

242 


The  Knight-Errant 


standing  back  in  the  corner,  beyond  the 
dancing  reach  of  the  light,  and,  with  sub- 
conscious discretion,  he  had  maintained  his 
position.  Now  he  saw  the  magnificent  mean- 
ing of  it.  And  as  Lady  Dorothy,  prettily 
shrinking,  moved  from  point  to  point  of  the 
cramped  room,  he  thrust  forward  his  scrubby 
lips  until  they  reached  Henry's  shoulder. 

"  It's  a  sorf  job  I  " 

Henry  at  the  table  turned  his  head,  and 
his  eyes  raked  the  ceiling.  "  I'm  ashamed 
of  yeh,  Bert,"  he  whispered. 

"  Make  old  Ling  take  that  kid  off,"  came 
from  Bert.  "  Tell  'im  we'll  share." 

"  Bert — oh,  yeh  low  blaggard  1  " 

But  Bert,  from  his  gloomy  corner,  caught 
Ho  Ling's  eye,  and  mouthed  him.  And  Ho 
Ling  knew.  He  turned  back  into  the  dark 
street.  He  spoke  to  the  groom,  and  his 
mumbling  voice  came  sleepily  to  the  others, 
like  the  lazy  hum  of  busy  bees.  Four  foot- 
steps grated  on  the  rough  asphalt  and 
gradually  dimmed  away.  Silence. 

Bert  moved  a  foot  forward,  and  tapped  his 
brother's  ankle.  There  was  no  response. 
He  repeated  the  action.  But  Henry  had 
dropped  into  his  chair  before  the  odorous 
litter  cf  three-pieces- and-chips  in  paper,  and 


Lime/iouse  Nights 


was  staring,  staring,  quietly  but  with  passion- 
ate adoration,  at  the  lady  who  shed  her 
lambent  light  on  Number  2  Poppy  Gardens. 
For  though  Henry's  calling,  if  it  is  to  be 
followed  with  success — and  five  years  ago 
Henry  was  the  narkiest  nark  in  East  London 
— demands  a  hardened  cynicism,  a  resolute 
stoniness,  yet  his  heart  was  still  young,  in 
places,  and  a  faint  spark  of  humanity  still 
glowed,  not  only  for  Bert,  but  for  the  world 
in  general.  But  Henry  knew  nothing  of  the 
ways  of  love.  None  of  the  rosebuds  of 
Limehouse  had  won  his  regard  or  even  his 
fleeting  fancy.  In  his  middle  age  he  was 
heartwhole.  And  now,  into  the  serenity  of 
that  middle  age  had  burst  a  whirlwind.  He 
gazed — and  gazed.  Here  stood  this — this — • 
"  ayngel  "  was  the  only  word  that  came  to 
his  halting  mind — here  she  stood,  a  rose 
among  dank  river  weeds,  in  his  bedroom, 
next  to  him,  'Enery,  the  blahsted  copper's 
nark.  It  was  too  wonderful.  It  was  too — 
oh,  too  .  .  . 

He  was  trapped.  He  was  in  love.  Soft 
voices  sang  to  him,  and  he  became  oblivious 
to  all  save  the  dark  head  of  Dorothy,  stand- 
ing out  in  the  misty  light,  a  vague  circle  of 
radiance  enchanting  his  dulled  eyes. 

«44 


The  Knight-Errant 


So   that   Bert   tapped   his   brother's   foot 
vainly. 

Then  Dorothy  moved  a  pace  toward  Henry. 
Bert,  still  unseen,  drew  snakily  back.  She 
stood  against  the  table,  looking  down  on  the 
seated  figure.  Her  dress  rustled  against  his 
fingers,  and  he  thrilled  with  pulsing  heat, 
because  of  the  body  loaded  with  graces  and 
undiscovered  wonders  that  it  clothed.  The 
glamour  of  her  close  neighbourhood  and  the 
peaceful  perfume  of  violet  that  stole  from  her 
fired  him  with  a  senseless  glory,  and  he  longed 
to  assert  his  right  to  her  admiration.  She 
was  talking,  but  he  heard  no  words.  He  only 
knew  that  she  was  standing  against  him ; 
and  as  he  stared,  unseeing,  about  the  room 
with  its  whiffy  table,  its  towzled  bed,  its 
scratched  walls  (set  alight  by  the  shivering 
candle,  as  though  the  whole  world  were  join- 
ing him  in  his  tremor),  he  felt  well  content. 
He  would  like  to  sit  like  this  for  ever  and  for 
ever.  This  English  rose,  this  sleek  angel, 
this  .  .  . 

Ah !  Henry  felt  at  that  moment  that  it 
was  Providence  and  nothing  less.  Providence. 
Only  so  could  it  be  explained.  It  was,  with- 
out the  least  doubt,  some  divinity  protecting 
this  wandering  angel  that  moved  Henry,  at 


Umehouse  Nights 


that  critical  moment,  to  turn  his  head.  For 
what  he  saw,  as  he  turned,  was  a  corner  of 
thick  velvety  darkness ;  and  from  that  corner 
emerged  a  pair  of  swart,  whiskered  hands. 
Slowly  they  swam,  slowly,  toward  the  fair 
neck  of  Lady  Dorothy  as  she  talked  to  Henry 
in  ostrich-like  security.  Henry  stared. 

Then  the  hands  met,  and  their  meeting 
was  signalled  by  a  quick  scream  that  died  as 
soon  as  uttered  into  a  gasping  flutter.  It 
must  be  repeated  that  Henry  loved  his 
brother,  and  though,  from  childhood  onward, 
they  had  differed  widely  on  points  of  ethics, 
never  once  had  either  raised  his  hand  against 
the  other.  But  to-night  romance  had 
steeped  Henry's  soul ;  he  was  moon-mad ; 
the  fairies  had  kissed  him.  Thus  he  explained 
it  next  morning,  but  none  would  hear  him. 

For,  the  moment  Bert's  hands  enclosed 
Dorothy's  neck,  Henry,  full  of  that  tough, 
bony  strength  peculiar  to  those  who  live  lives 
of  enforced  abstinence,  sprang  up,  and  his 
left  went  THK !  squarely  between  Bert's 
eyes.  The  grasp  was  loosened,  and  Henry 
grabbed  Dorothy's  wrist  and  swung  back  his 
arm,  jerking  her  clean  across  the  room.  She 
screamed.  He  followed  it  with  a  second  blow 
on  Bert's  nose.  Bert  staggered,  dazed. 
246 


The  Knight-Errant 


"  Wha'-wha'  ?  Hands  orf  yeh  brother, 
'Enery.  What  yeh  doin'  ?  'Ittin'  yer  own 
brother  ?  "  There  was  ineffable  surprise  and 
reproach  in  his  tone. 

But  Henry  left  him  in  no  doubt,  for  he  now 
saw  red,  and  a  third  smack  landed  on  Bert's 
jaw.  Then  Bert,  too,  arose  in  his  wrath. 
Henry,  however,  in  his  professional  career 
had  had  vast  experience  in  tough  scrums  of 
this  kind,  in  narrow  space,  while  Bert  knew 
but  little  of  any  warfare  except  that  of  the 
streets.  As  Henry  drew  back,  tightly  strung 
for  Bert's  rush,  his  leg  shot  out  behind  him, 
caught  the  corner  of  the  table  and  sent  it  and 
the  candle  sprawling  to  the  floor  with  a  doleful 
bump  and  a  rush  of  chips. 

Then  the  fun  began.  For  of  all  sports  that 
can  ever  be  devised,  there  can  be  none  more 
inspiriting  than  a  fight  in  the  dark.  To 
Henry,  in  the  peculiar  circumstances,  it  was 
the  time  of  his  life.  He  thrilled  and  burned 
with  the  desire  to  perform  great  deeds.  He 
would  have  liked  very  much  to  die  in  this 
fight.  Quixote  never  so  thrilled  for  Dulcinea 
as  Henry  Wiggin  for  Lady  Dorothy.  He  be- 
came all-powerful ;  nothing  was  impossible. 
He  could  have  fought  a  thousand  Berts  and 
have  joyed  in  the  encounter.  An  intense 

247 


Lime/iouse  Nights 


primed  vigour  swept  over  his  spare  jockey 
frame,  and  he  knew,  even  so  late,  the  mean- 
ing of  life  and  love.  Lady  Dorothy  screamed. 

"  Oh,  yeh  snipe  !  "  cried  Bert,  with  furious 
curses ;  and  his  rubber  slippers  sup-supped  on 
the  floor  as  he  fumbled  for  his  recreant 
brother.  Henry  retreated  to  the  wall,  and 
his  pawing  hand  found  Lady  Dorothy.  She 
screamed  and  shrank. 

"  Shut  up,  yeh  fool  1 "  he  cried,  in  excess 
of  enthusiasm.  "  Give  yehself  away,  yeh 
chump.  Steady — I'll  get  yeh  out."  He 
dragged  her  along  the  wall  while  Bert  fumed 
and  panted  like  a  caged  animal. 

"  Gotcher  !  "  A  sudden  rush  forward  and 
he  spread  himself  over  the  upturned  table. 
More  language,  and  Lady  Dorothy,  had  her 
senses  been  fully  alert,  might  have  culled 
material  for  half-a-dozen  slum  novels  from 
her  first  excursion  into  Limehouse. 

"  'Alf  a  mo',  'alf  a  mo',"  whispered  Henry, 
consolingly,  as  he  felt  her  shake  against  him. 
"  I'll  get  the  door  in  a  minute.  So  bloody 
dark,  though.  Steady — 'e's  close  now.  Bert 
— don'  be  a  fool.  Yeh'll  get  the  rozzers  on 
yeh." 

But  Bert  was  beating  the  air  with  a  Poplar 
sandbag,  and  it  was  clear  from  his  remarks 

148 


The  Knight-Errant 


that  he  was  very  cross.  It  seemed  doubtful 
that  he  would  hear  reason.  Lady  Dorothy 
screamed. 

"  'Alf  a  mo',  lidy.  I'll "  He  broke  off 

with  a  rude  word,  for  the  sandbag  had  made 
its  mark  on  his  shoulder.  Now  he  wanted 
Bert's  blood  as  a  personal  satisfaction,  and 
he  left  his  lady  by  the  wall  and  charged 
gloriously  into  the  darkness.  "  I'll  break 
yeh  face  if  I  get  yeh,  Bert.  I'll  split  yen 
lousy  throat." 

His  hand  groped  and  clawed ;  it  touched 
something  soft.  The  something  darted  back, 
and  almost  immediately  came  a  volley  of 
throttled  screams  that  set  Henry  writhing 
with  a  lust  for  blood.  There  followed  a  little 
clitter,  as  of  dropping  peas,  and  a  wrench  and 
a  snap. 

"  Gottem  ! " 

"  Bert — yeh  bleeding  twicer,  if  I  get  'old 

of  yeh  I'll "  and  the  rest  of  his  speech 

cannot  be  set  down.  He  snaked  along  the 
wall  and  his  stretched  hand  struck  the  door 
knob.  The  situation  was  critical.  The 
thick  darkness  veiled  everything  from  him. 
Somewhere,  in  that  pool  of  mystery,  was 
Lady  Dorothy  in  the  vandal  clutches  of 
brother  Bert.  Too,  she  was  silent.  Henry 

249 


Limehouse  Nights 


opened  the  door,  and  looked  out  on  a  darkness 
and  a  silence  thicker  than  those  of  the  room. 
A  train  rumbled  over  the  long-suffering  arches. 
When  it  had  faded  into  the  beyond,  he  stepped 
out  and  put  one  hand  to  his  mouth.  Along 
the  hollow,  draughty  archway  a  queer  call 
rang  in  a  little  hurricane. 

41  Weeny — Weeny — Wee-ee-ee-ee-ny  !  " 

Bert  gave  a  gusty  scream.  He  knew  what 
it  meant.  "  Gawd,  'Enery,  I'll  do  yeh  in  for 
this.  I'll  'ave " 

"  Where'bouts  are  yeh,  lidy ;  where'bouts 
are  yeh  ?  '* 

"  I'm  here.  He's  got— he's— oh  !  "  Tiny 
shrieks  flitted  from  her  like  sparks  from  an 
engine. 

And  then  the  atmosphere  became  electric, 
as  Henry,  noting  the  position  of  the  door, 
made  a  second  dash  into  space.  He  heard 
the  dragging  of  feet  as  Bert  hustled  his  quarry 
away  from  the  point  at  which  she  had  spoken. 
He  followed  it,  and  this  time  he  caught  Bert 
and  held  him.  For  a  moment  or  so  they 
strained  terribly ;  then  Henry,  with  a  lucky 
jerk,  released  the  grip  on  Dorothy. 

They  closed.  Henry  got  a  favourite  arm- 
lock  on  his  brother,  but  blood  was  pounding 
and  frothing,  and  violence  was  here  more 

250 


The  Knight-Errant 


useful  than  skill.  They  stood  rigid,  and 
gasped  and  swore  as  terribly  as  our  Army  in 
Flanders,  and  they  tugged  and  strained  with 
no  outward  sign  of  movement.  One  could 
hear  the  small  bones  crick.  Lady  Dorothy 
stood  in  a  corner  and  shrieked  staccato.  It 
seemed  that  neither  would  move  for  the  next 
hour,  when  Bert,  seeing  a  chance,  shifted  a 
foot  for  a  closer  grip,  and  with  that  movement 
the  fight  went  to  Henry.  He  gave  a  sudden 
jerk  and  twist,  flattened  his  brother  against 
his  hard  chest,  hugged  him  in  a  bear-like 
embrace  for  a  few  seconds  and  swung  him 
almost  gently  to  the  ground. 

44  Come,  lidy — quick.  'E'll  be  up  in  a 
minute.  Run  1  Fer  the  love  of  glory — 
run !  " 

He  caught  her  and  slid  for  the  door ; 
bumped  against  the  corner  of  it ;  swore ; 
found  the  exit  and  pulled  Lady  Dorothy, 
gasping  thankfully,  into  the  chill  air  and 
along  the  sounding  arches,  which  already 
echoed  the  throbbing  of  feet — big  feet.  But 
he  had  no  thought  for  what  lay  behind. 
With  Dorothy's  lily  hand  clasped  in  his  he 
raced  through  the  night  and  the  lone  Poplar 
arches  towards  East  India  Dock  Road. 


251 


Limehouse  Nights 


"  No,  but,  look  'ere,"  said  Bert ;  "  hang  it 
all,  cancher  see " 

"  Quite  'nough  from  you,"  said  the  con- 
stable. "  Hear  all  that  at  the  station,  we 


can." 


Bert  extended  a  hand  tragically  to  argue, 
but,  realising  the  futility  of  resisting  the 
obvious,  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  floor-bed 
and  relapsed  into  moody  silence.  He  re- 
flected on  the  utter  hopelessness  of  human 
endeavour  while  such  a  thing  as  luck  existed. 
And  it  was  only  the  other  day  that  he  had 
pasted  on  his  walls  a  motto,  urging  him  to 
Do  It  Now.  "You  was  'asty,  Bert,"  he 
communed.  "  'At's  alwis  bin  your  fault — 
'aste." 

Then  Henry,  shoulders  warped,  hands 
pocketed,  shuffled  into  the  room.  He  looked 
disgustedly  at  the  floor,  littered  with  fish  and 
chips  and  watered  with  two  small  pools  of 
black  beer.  He  looked  around  the  room,  as 
though  around  life  generally,  and  his  lip 
dropped  and  his  teeth  set.  He  seemed  to  see 
nobody. 

"  What-o,  Hen,  me  boy  !  "  said  the  con- 
stable amiably.  "  You  look  cheerful,  you 
do.  Look's  though  you  lost  a  tanner  and 
found  a  last  year's  Derby  sweep  ticket." 

252 


The  Knight-Errant 


Then,  relapsing  to  business  :  "  This  is  all 
right,  though,  this  is."  He  indicated  the 
table,  where  lay  a  little  heap  of  bracelets,  a 
brooch,  two  or  three  sovereigns,  some  silver 
and  a  bag.  "  First  time  I  ever  knew  you 
pop  the  daisy  on  yer  brother,  though.  Fac. 
What  was  it  ?  " 

"  Eh  ?  What  was  .  .  .  ?  Oh,  he  went  for  a 
— a  lidy  what  was  going  round  'ere.  She's 
just  got  infer  carriage  near  *  The  Star  of  the 
East.'  You'll  find  'er  chap  under  the  arches 
somewhere  with  old  Ho  Ling,  the  Chink.  In 
'  The  Green  Man '  I  fink  I  saw  'em.  Bert  went 
for  'er  and  swabbed  the  twinklers.  'At's  all 
I  know."  He  sat  down  sourly  by  the  table. 

Bert  sprang  up  frantically,  but  the  con- 
stable put  a  spry  grip  on  his  arm.  He 
squirmed.  "  What  .  .  .  No,  but  .  .  .  What 
yeh  doing  .  .  .  'ere  ...  I  ...  Narkin* 
on  yer  own  brother  1  But  yeh  can't  1  Yeh 
can't  do  it  1  Playin'  the  low-down  nark  on 
Bert.  You  .  .  .  I  .  ..." 

It  could  be  seen  that  this  second  shock  was 
too  terrible.  The  fight  and  the  calling  of  the 
cops  was  a  mortal  offence,  but  at  least  under- 
standable. But  this  .  .  . 

"  'Ere,  but  it's  Bert,  'Enery.  Bert.  You 
ain't  goin'  back  on  oF  Bert.  Now  1  'Enery, 

253 


Limehouse  Nights 


play  up  1  "  He  implored  with  hands  and 
face. 

Henry  slewed  savagely  round.  In  his  eyes 
was  the  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land. 
"  Oh,  shut  orf  1  " 

For  the  lips  of  Henry  Wiggin,  copper's 
nark,  had  kissed  those  of  Lady  Dorothy 
Grandolin,  all  under  the  Poplar  arches,  and 
in  the  waistcoat  pocket  of  Henry  Wiggin,  the 
copper's  nark,  were  the  watch  and  chain  of 
Lady  Dorothy  Grandolin. 


154 


The  Gorilla  and  the  Girl 


IN  an  underground  chamber  near  the 
furtive  Causeway,  Sat'-imalia  was  being 
celebrated.  The  room  -i?hich  lay  below 
the  sign  of  the  Blue  Lantern  was  lit  by  shy 
gas-jets  and  furnished  with  wooden  tables 
and  chairs.  Strange  scents  held  the  air. 
Bottled  beer  and  whisky  crowded  a  small 
table  at  the  far  end,  and  near  this  table  stood 
the  owner  of  the  house,  Mr  Hunk  Bottles. 
At  other  small  tables  were  cards  and  various 
devices  for  killing  time  and  money.  All 
those  who  were  well  seen  in  Limehouse  and 
Poplar  were  here,  and  the  informed  observer 
could  recognise  many  memorable  faces. 
Chuck  Lightfoot  and  Battling  Burrows  were 
engaged  in  a  comparatively  peaceable  game 
of  fan-tan  with  Sway  Lim  and  Quong  Tart ; 
at  any  rate  the  noise  they  were  making  could 
not  have  been  heard  beyond  Custom  House. 
Tai  Ling  and  his  Marigold  were  there,  very 
merry,  and  Pansy  Greers,  with  an  escort  from 
the  Pool,  attracted  much  attention  in  a  dress 
which  finished  where  it  ought  to  have  begun. 
Ding-Dong  was  there  :  Perce  Sleep ;  Paris 
Pete;  Polly  the  Pug;  Jenny  Jackson's 
Provence  Boys,  so  called  because  they  fre- 
quented that  cafe" ;  the  Chatwood  Kid,  from 
Tfhom  no  safe  could  withhold  its  secrets;  and, 
*  257 


Limehousc  Nights 


in  fact,  all  the  golden  boys  and  naughty  girls 
of  the  district  were  snatching  their  moment 
of  solace.  Old  Foo  Ah  lolloped  on  a  chair, 
slumbering  in  the  heavy  content  of  a  kan- 
garoo. That  masculine  lady,  Tidal  Basin 
Sal,  sprawled  on  a  shabby  private-bar  lounge 
with  a  little  girl,  whom  she  would  alternately 
kiss  and  slap  proprietorially.  A  nigger  from 
the  Polynesians  made  himself  a  nuisance  to 
the  air  and  the  company ;  and  on  a  table  at 
the  extreme  end  stood  little  Gina  of  the 
Chinatown,  slightly  drunk,  and  with  clothing 
disarranged,  singing  that  most  thrilling  and 
provocative  of  rag-times  : 

"  You're  here  and  I'm  here, 
So  what  do  we  care  ?  " 

"  Yerss,"  the  Monico  Kid  was  saying,  in  a 
sedulously  acquired  American  accent,  "  had 
a  tumble  to-day.  I  was  hustling  the  match 
with  Flash  Fred,  and  we  took  a  big  nig  off  the 
water  for  the  works.  I  stood  for  the  finish 
on  him,  and  it  listens  like  good  music  to  me, 
cos  he  don't  tip  me.  Fred  spotted  him  and 
officed  me  to  pull  the  rough  stuff.  Rough's 
my  middle  name.  I  wrote  the  book  about  it. 
But  the  nig  was  fresh  and  shouted  for  the  blue 
boys.  See  my  eye  ?  Well,  we  handed  out 

258 


The  Gorilla  and  the  Girl 

some  punk  sturf,  and  then  I  levanted,  and  now 
I'm  lying  cavey  a  bit,  see  ?  Gaw,  there  ain't 
nothing  to  this  rough-neck  stuff.  I  figger  on 
quittin'  'fore  long.  Dick  the  Duke  was 
pinched  t'other  day.  I  went  t'ear  it.  A 
stretch  ?  Lorlummy,  they  fair  shied  the  book 
at  'im  and  told  'im  to  add  up  the  sentences. 
Yerss  .  .  .  it's  all  a  wangle." 

But  the  couple  on  whom  Hunk  kept  the 
most  careful  eye  were  his  young  daughter, 
Lois,  and  little  Batty  Bertello,  the  son  of 
the  sharpest  copper's  nark  in  the  quarter. 
These  two  sat  apart,  on  a  lounge,  clasped  in 
one  another's  arms,  their  feet  drawn  up  from 
the  floor,  lip  locked  to  lip  in  the  ecstasy  of 
self -discovery ;  for  the  man  the  ecstasy  of 
possession,  for  the  girl  the  ecstasy  of  surrender. 

Lois  had  picked  up  Batty  in  Tunnel 
Gardens  one  Sunday  night,  and  although  from 
the  age  of  ten  she  had  been  accustomed  to 
kisses  and  embraces  from  boy  admirers,  she 
realised,  when  Batty  first  kissed  her,  that  here 
was  something  different.  There  was  nothing 
soppy  about  him  .  .  .  rather,  something 
kind  of  curious  .  .  .  big  and  strong,  like. 
He  seemed  to  give  everything  ;  yet  gave  you 
the  rummy  feeling  of  having  held  something 
in  reserve,  something  that  you  were  not  good 

259 


Limekouse  Nights 


enough  for.  You  didn't  know  what  it  was 
or  how  great  it  was,  and  it  made  you  kind  of 
mad  to  find  out.  And  when  he  kissed  you  . . . 
She  wondered  if  she  were  a  bad,  nasty  girl  for 
wanting  to  have  his  hands  about  her.  All 
her  person  was  at  once  soothed  and  titillated 
by  the  throb  of  his  pulses  when  they  clasped  ; 
she  was  a  responsive  instrument  on  which  he 
played  the  eternal  melody.  She  felt  that  she 
could  hold  no  secrets  from  him ;  so  at  risk  of 
losing  him  she  told  him  the  whole  truth  about 
herself ;  told  it  in  that  voice  of  hers,  fragile 
and  firm  as  fluted  china  and  ringing  with  the 
tender  tones  of  far-away  bells.  How  that  she 
was  the  daughter  of  the  terrible  Hunk  Bottles, 
and  lived  in  that  bad  house,  the  Blue  Lantern, 
and  how  that  her  father  was  the  lifelong 
enemy  of  his  father,  Jumbo  Bertello.  And 
Batty  had  laughed,  and  they  had  continued 
to  love. 

Presently  Lois  swung  herself  from  the 
lounge  and  began  to  "  cook  "  for  her  boy. 
On  a  small  table  she  spread  the  lay-out ;  lit 
the  lamp ;  dug  out  the  treacly  hop  from  the 
toey  and  held  it  against  the  flame.  It  bubbled 
furiously,  and  the  air  was  charged  with  a 
loathsome  sweetness.  Then,  holding  the 
bamboo  pipe  in  one  hand,  she  scraped  the  bowl 

260 


The  Gorilla  and  the  Girl 

with  a  yen-shi-gow,  and  kneaded  the  brown 
clot  with  the  yen-hok.  Slowly  it  changed 
colour  as  the  poison  gases  escaped.  Then  she 
broke  a  piece  in  her  finger,  and  dropped  it  into 
the  bowl,  and  handed  the  stem  to  Batty.  He 
puffed  languorously,  and  thick  blue  smoke 
rolled  from  him. 

But  Hunk  Bottles  regarded  the  scene  with 
slow  anger.  Lois  was  ignoring  his  commands. 
When  he  had  heard  that  she  was  going  with 
the  son  of  a  copper's  nark  he  had  drawn  her 
aside  and  had  spoken  forceful  words.  He  had 
said  : 

"  Look  'ere,  me  gel,  you  be  careful. 
Less  you  go  round  with  that  young  Ber- 
tello  the  better.  Y'know  what  'is  old  man 
is,  doncher  ?  Well,  be  careful  what  yeh  talk 
about.  Cos  if  any  of  my  business  gets  out  .  .  . 
Well "  (he  hit  the  air  with  a  fat  hand)  "  if 
I  do  catch  yeh  talkin'  at  all,  I'll  break 
every  bone  in  yeh  blinkin'  body.  I'll  take 
the  copper-stick  to  yeh  and  won't  let  up  till 
every  bit  of  yeh's  broken.  Else  I'll  give  yeh 
to  one  o'  the  Chinks  to  do  what  'e  likes  with, 
So  now  yeh  know.  See  ?  " 

Lois  knew  that  this  was  not  an  idle  threat. 
She  had  seen  things  done  at  the  Blue  Lantern. 
There  were  rooms  into  which  she  was  not 

261 


Lime/iouse  Nights 


permitted  to  pry.  Once  in  the  cellar  she  had 
seen  little  glass  tubes  of  peculiar  shape, 
coloured  papers,  and  a  big  machine.  She 
had  seen  men  who  came  to  the  private  bar, 
and  never  called  for  a  drink,  but  had  one 
given  them,  and  who  sat  and  mumbled  across 
the  counter  for  hours  at  a  stretch. 

And  Batty  ...  he,  too,  knew  a  bit.  He 
wanted  to  take  her  away  from  the  lowering 
Causeway  and  the  malefic  air  of  the  quarter. 
But  he  knew  that  old  Hunk  would  never  con- 
sent to  marriage  ;  Lois  was  too  useful  in  the 
bar  as  a  draw  to  custom.  He  knew,  too,  that 
if  he  took  her  forcibly  away  Hunk  would  be 
after  them  and  would  drag  her  back.  The 
only  way  by  which  he  could  get  her  would  be 
to  remove  Hunk  for  a  spell,  and  the  only 
means  by  which  this  could  be  accom- 
plished. ...  At  this  point  he  saw  clear. 
Very  little  stood  between  Hunk  and  the 
Thames  Police  Court.  A  little  definite 
evidence  and  old  Jumbo  Bertello  could  work 
a  raid  at  the  right  moment. 

So,  the  night  after  the  Saturnalia,  he  took 
Lois  for  a  bus-ride,  and  he  talked  and  talked 
to  her.  She  told  him  what  her  dad  would  do 
to  her  if  ...  But  he  dashed  in  and  assured 
her  that  there  was  not  one  moment's  danger 

262 


The  Gorilla  and  the  Girl 

to  her  little  dear  body  ;  not  a  moment's. 
One  tiny  scrap  of  evidence  in  his  hands  and 
she  would  be  safe  with  him  for  ever. 

Well,  that  night  certain  pieces  of  coloured 
paper  passed  from  the  hands  of  Lois  to  those 
<  f  her  Batty,  and  from  Batty  they  passed  to 
the  old  copper's  nark.  Jumbo  hugged  those 
pieces  of  coloured  paper  in  his  breast-pocket 
and  was  glad.  He  would  go  straight  to  the 
station  and  deposit  them,  and  thus  he  would 
be  helping  his  kid  to  marry  the  girl  he  wanted 
and  would  also  be  helping  himself  to  rewards 
of  a  more  substantial  kind.  He  passed  the 
Star  of  the  East,  and  noted  mechanically  that 
it  was  closing  time  ;  but  he  noted  with  a  very 
actual  interest  that  a  crowd  had  assembled 
at  a  near  corner.  Now  Jumbo  was  a  man  of 
simple  tastes.  Above  all  else  he  loved  the 
divine  simplicity  of  a  fight,  and  a  street  crowd 
acted  on  him  as  a  red  rag  on  a  bull.  At  such 
a  spectacle  his  eyes  would  light  up,  his  nostrils 
quiver,  his  hands  clench  and  unclench  and 
his  feet  dance  a  double  shuffle  until,  unable 
longer  to  remain  neutral,  he  would  charge  in 
and  lend  a  hand  to  whichever  party  in  the 
contest  seemed  to  be  getting  the  worse.  So 
it  was  to-night.  Within  half-a-minute  he 
was  in  the  centre  of  the  crowd.  At  the  end 

263 


of  the  full  minute  he  was  prostrate  on  the 

ground,  his  skull  cracked  on  the  edge  of  the 

kerb. 

•  •••••• 

The  inquest  was  held  on  the  following  day, 
and  the  full  report  in  the  local  paper  con- 
tained the  following  passage  : — 

"  The  deceased  was  known  in  the  district  as 
a  man  who  has,  on  frequent  occasions,  been  of 
material  assistance  to  the  police  in  the  carry- 
ing out  of  their  duties  in  the  Dockside.  In 
his  pockets  were  found  Is.  6jd.  in  coppers 
and  several  slips  of  crisp,  coloured  paper  of  a 
curious  quality  unknown  to  any  of  the  paper- 
makers  in  London.  It  is  understood  that  the 
police  are  pursuing  inquiries." 

Old  Hunk  Bottles  came  down  to  supper  in 
the  parlour  of  the  Blue  Lantern  at  half-past 
eight  that  evening,  and  while  Lois  ministered 
to  him  with  parched  face  and  a  trembling 
hand  he  called  for  the  local  paper.  The  skin 
of  her  whole  body  seemed  to  go  white  and 
damp,  and  her  sunset  hair  took  fire.  She  saw 
him  turn  to  the  police-court  reports  and 
inquests.  She  saw  him  read,  with  a  prelimin- 
ary chuckle  of  satisfaction,  the  report  on  the 

264 


The  Gorilla  and  the  Girl 

death  of  the  copper's  nark.  And  then,  like 
a  rabbit  before  a  snake,  she  shrank  against 
the  wall  as  she  saw  his  face  change,  and  the 
paper  droop  from  his  hands.  Very  terrible 
were  the  eyes  that  glared  at  her.  She  would 
have  made  a  rush  for  the  door,  but  every  nerve 
of  her  was  sucked  dry.  Then  the  glare  faded 
from  his  face  and  he  became  curiously  natural. 

"  Well,"  he  remarked,  "  bits  of  coloured 
paper  don't  prove  much,  do  they  ?  Let  'em 
make  all  the  inquiries  they  like  about  their 
bits  of  coloured  paper.  They  won't  git  far 
on  that.  But  there's  one  thing  that  bits  of 
coloured  paper  do  prove  when  they're  in  old 
Jumbo's  pockets,  and  that  is,  that  you're 
going  through  it  to-night,  me  gel.  Right 
through  it." 

She  cuddled  the  wall  and  hunched  her 
shoulders  as  though  against  an  immediate 
blow. 

"  Ar,  you  can  skulk,  yeh  little  copper's 
nark,  but  yer  in  for  it  now.  What  d'l  tell 
yeh  ?  Eh  ?  "  He  spoke  in  syrupy  tones, 
terribly  menacing.  "  What  d'l  tell  yeh  I'd 
do  ?  Answer,  yeh  skunk,  answer !  Come 
on ! "  He  approached  her  with  a  quick  step, 
and  snatched  her  wrists  from  h«r  face. 
*'  A*79'*7or  roe.  What  d'l  say  I'd  do  to  yeh  ?  " 

265 


Limehouse  Nighh 


"  Break  every  bone  in  me  body,"  she 
whimpered. 

*'  That's  right.  But  I  changed  me  mind. 
It'll  make  too  much  noise  round  the  Blue 
Lantern.  I  got  something  better  for  you,  me 
darling.  Y'know  our  top  room  ?  ' 

She  was  silent,  and  he  shook  her  like  a  dog. 
"  Answer !  Know  our  top  room  ?  ' 

"  Yes,  dad." 

"  Where  we  keep  old  Kang  Foo's  gorilla 
what  he  brought  from  the  Straits  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dad." 

"  Well,  the  safest  place  for  little  copper's 
narks  is  a  top  room  where  they  can't  get  out. 
That's  where  you're  going  to-night.  Going 
to  be  locked  in  the  top  room  with  old  Kang's 
gorilla.  'E'll  look  after  yeh  all  right.  That'll 
learn  yeh  to  keep  yeh  tongue  quiet.  See  ? 
That's  what  I'm  going  to  do.  Lock  you  in 
the  dark  room  with  the  big  monkey.  And  if 
yeh  don't  know  what  a  gorilla  can  do  to  a 
gel  when  it  gets  'er  alone,  yeh  soon  will.  So 
now  1  " 

"Oh  ...  dad "     She  blubbered,  a  sick 

dread  filling  all  her  face.  "  I  di'n'  do  nothing. 
I  dunno  nothin'  'bout  it,"  she  lied.  "  I  dunno 
nothing.  I  ain't  been  blabbin'." 

"  Aw,  yeh  damn  little  liar  I  "     He  lifted  a 
266 


The  Gorilla  and  the  Girl 

large  hand  over  her.  "  I'll  give  yeh  somethin* 
extra  for  lyin'  if  yeh  don't  cut  it.  Now  then, 
up  yeh  go  and  sleep  with  little  'Rilla.  N« 
nonsense." 

What  happened  then  was  not  pleasant  to 
see.  She  struggled.  She  screamed  hoarse 
screams  which  made  scarce  any  sound.  She 
kicked  and  bit.  Her  dramatic  hair  tumbled 
in  a  torrent.  And  her  big  father  flung  two 
arms  about  her,  mishandled  her,  and  dragged 
her  with  rattling  cries  up  the  steep  stair. 
When  they  reached  the  top  landing,  to  which 
she  had  never  before  ascended,  and  the  loft 
of  a  room  which,  she  had  heard,  Kang  Foo 
rented  as  a  stable  for  his  gorilla,  all  fight  was 
gone  from  her.  A  limp,  moaning  bundle  was 
flung  into  the  thickly  dark  room.  She  heard 
the  rattle  of  a  chain  as  though  the  beast  had 
been  unloosed,  and  then  the  door  slammed 
and  clicked,  and  she  was  alone  with  the  huge, 
hairy  horror. 

In  a  sudden  access  of  despairing  strength 
she  rushed  to  the  window,  barred  inside 
and  out,  and  hammered  with  soft  fists  and 
screamed  :  "  Help  !  Help  !  Dad's  locked  me 
up  with  a  monkey  !  " 

It  was  about  half-an-hour  later  that  one 
came  to  Batty  JKertello,  who  was  taking  a 

267 


Limehouse  Nights 


glass  to  the  memory  of  the  deceased  dad  and 
also  to  buck  himself  up  a  bit,  and  told  him 
that  he  had  passed  the  Blue  Lantern  and  had 
heard  a  girl's  voice  screaming  from  a  top 
window  something  about  being  shut  up  with 
a  monkey.  And  Batty,  who  suddenly  realised 
that  Hunk  Bottles  had  heard  of  those  slips 
of  paper,  dropped  his  glass  and,  with  love- 
madness  in  his  face,  dashed  for  the  door, 
crying  : 

"  Come  on,  boys !  All  of  yeh !  Old 
Hunk's  murdering  his  Lois  !  " 

And  the  boys,  scenting  a  fight,  went  on. 
They  didn't  know  where  the  fight  was  or 
whom  they  were  going  to  fight.  It  was  suffi- 
cient that  there  was  a  fight.  Through  brusque 
streets  and  timid  passages  they  chased  Batty, 
and  when  he  broke,  like  a  crash  of  thunder, 
into  the  private  bar,  they  followed  him. 

"  Over,  boys  !  "  he  cried,  and  to  the  intense 
delight  of  all  he  placed  a  hand  on  the  bar 
and  vaulted  the  beer  engines,  bringing  down 
only  two  glasses.  Fired  by  his  example,  they 
followed,  and  then  Hunk  Bottles  was  rushed 
to  the  ropes  by  the  arowd — that  is,  to  the 
farther  wall  of  his  own  parlour.  They  lowered 
upon  him ;  they  beetled,  arms  ready  for  battle. 
In  the  front  centre  was  the  alert  Batty. 

268 


The  Gorilla  and  the  Girl 

"  Where's  Lois  ?  " 

"  G-gone  to  bed  !  "  answered  Hunk,  taken 
aback  by  the  sudden  invasion.  Then, 
attempting  to  recover  :  "  'Ere,  what  the 
devil's  all  this  ?  'Ere — Joe,  fetch  the  cops. 
'Ere— I- 

"  Shut  up  !  "  snapped  Batty.  "  Liar. 
You  shut  'er  up  with  a  monkey  upstairs." 

"  Liar,  I  'aven't !  " 

"  Liar,  you  'ave  1 ': 

"  Yerss,  you  'ave  !  "  roared  the  crowd,  not 
knowing  what  it  was  he  had  done.  "  Down 
'im,  boys.  Dot  'im  one.  Cop  'old  o'  Joe — 
don't  let  'im  out." 

The  potman  was  dragged  also  into  the 
parlour  and  the  few  loungers  in  the  four-ale 
bar  took  the  opportunity  to  come  round  and 
help  themselves  to  further  drinks.  "  'E's 
shut  Lois  up  with  a  monkey.  Aw — dirty 
dog.  Less  go  up  and  get  'er  out." 

But  then  the  potman  cried  upon  them  : 
"  Don'  be  damn  fools.  Wod  yer  talkin' 
about.  'Ow  can  'e  shut  'er  up  wiv  a  monkey 
— eh  ?  Yer  plurry  pie-cans  !  'Ow  can  'e  ? 
We  ain't  got  no  monkey  'ere  !  " 

"  Liar !  "  cried  everybody,  as  a  matter  of 
principle. 

"  I  ain't  a  liar.  Go  an'  see  fer  yehselves, 
269 


Limehouse  Nights 


We  ain't  got  no  monkey  'ere.  Ain't  'ad  one 
'ere  for  nearly  a  year.  Old  Kang  Foo  sold 
his  to  Bostock.  Don'  make  such  damn  fools 
o'  yesselves.  Nothin'  ain't  been  done  to  the 
gel.  Old  'Unk's  on'y  punished  'er  cos  she's 
too  chippy.  She's  'is  daughter.  Got  a  right 
to,  ain't  'e  ?  If  she'd  bin  mine  I'd  'ave  give 
'er  a  good  spankin'.  'E's  on'y  sent  'er  up 
to  the  room  to  frighten  'er.  It's  empty — 
abs'lutely  empty." 

41  Then  what's  the  screamin'  and  rowin' 
that's  bin  going  on  all  the  time  ?  Eh  ? 
Listen  !  " 

Low  noises  came  from  above.  "  Cos  she's 
frightened — 'at's  why.  There's  nothin'  there." 
"  Yerss,  that's  it,"  said  the  aggrieved 
Hunk,  still  wedged  against  the  wall  by  the 
crowd.  "  Yeh  makin'  yesselves  dam  fools. 
Specially  this  dam  little  snipe,  son  of  a 
copper's  nark.  Go  up  and  see  fer  yesselves 
since  yeh  so  pushin'.  Go  on — up  yeh  go. 
She's  all  right — quiet  enough  now,  cos  she's 
found  out  there's  nothing  there.  I  on'y 
sent  'er  there  to  get  a  fright.  There  warn't 
no  blasted  monkey  there." 

"  Well,  we  know  the  kind  o'  swine  you  are, 
Hunk.  Don't  stand  arguin'  there.  Get  on 
up  I" 


The  Gorilla  and  the  Girl 

"  I  ain't  a-arguin'  wiv  yer.  I'm  a-telling 
of  yeh.  We  ain't  got  no  monkey.  Not  fer  a 
year.  So  now.  Go  on  up  and  see  fer  yes- 
selves,  yeh  dirty  lot  of  poke-noses.  She  ain't 
'urt ;  on'y  scared.  Half-a-hour  in  a  dark 
room'll  learn  'er  to  be'ave,  and  it  wouldn't  do 
some  of  you  no  'arm.  Go  on  !  Get  up  my 
clean  stairs  and  knock  everything  to  pieces, 
yeh  pack  of  flat -faced  pleading  chameleons  !  " 
He  stopped  and  spluttered  and  shook  himself 
with  impotent  anger.  Any  one  of  the  crowd 
he  could  have  put  on  the  floor  with  one  hand, 
but  he  recognised  that  a  gang  was  a  gang, 
and  he  accepted  the  situation.  He  flung  a 
hand  to  the  stair.  "  Go  on — up  yeh  go — the 
'ole  pleadin'  lot  of  yeh  !  " 

So  up  they  went. 

At  the  top  of  the  house  all  was  very  still. 
The  sounds  of  the  river  came  in  little  low  laps. 
The  noises  of  the  street  were  scarcely  heard  at 
all.  They  paused  in  a  body  at  the  door. 
The  potman  was  with  them  with  the  key. 
He  unlocked  the  door,  shoved  it  with  a 
casual  hand,  and  piped  : 

"  Come  on,  kid — come  on  out.  Some  of 
yeh  lovely  narky  friends  think  we  bin 
murderin'  yeh."  The  boys  clustered  in  an 
awkward  bunch  at  the  door,  peering  into  the 


Limehouse  Nights 


darkness.  But  nobody  came  out  ;  nobody 
answered ;  no  sound  at  all  was  to  be  heard. 
"  Strike  a  light  1  "  shouted  a  voice.  Far 
below,  the  silence  was  bespattered  with  muddy 
laughter  from  the  four-ale  bar. 

The  light  was  brought,  and  they  crowded 
in.  On  the  bare  floor  of  the  room  lay  Lois. 
Portions  of  her  clothing  were  strewn  here  and 
there.  Her  released  hair  rippled  mischiev- 
ously over  her  bosom  disclosed  to  the  waist. 
Her  stiff  hands  were  curled  into  her  dis- 
ordered dress.  She  was  dead.  The  room 
was  otherwise  empty. 


•7* 


Ding-  Dong- Dell 


TOM  THE  TINKER  came  off  the 
lighter  in  mid-stream  near  Lime- 
house  Hole,  and  was  taken  to  the 
landing-stage  in  an  absurdly  small  rowing- 
boat.  His  face  was  cold  and  grey,  his  clothes 
damp  and  disordered.  He  had  been  on  a 
job.  Under  the  uncommunicative  Limehouse 
night  the  river  ran  like  a  stream  of  molten 
lead.  Stately  cargoes  pranced  here  and 
there.  Fussy  little  tugs  champed  up-stream. 
Sirens  wailed  their  unhappy  song.  Slothful 
barges  rolled  and  drifted,  seeming  without 
home  or  haven.  Cranes  creaked  and  blocks 
rattled,  and  far-away  Eastern  voices  were 
usually  expressive  in  chanties.  But  Tom  the 
Tinker  saw  and  heard  nothing  of  this.  He 
had  not  that  queer  faculty,  indispensable  to 
the  really  successful  cracksman,  of  paying 
rapt  attention  to  six  things  at  once.  He 
could  only  concentrate  on  one  thing  at  a 
time,  and,  while  that  faculty  may  serve  in 
commerce  and  office  business,  it  will  not 
serve  in  the  finer,  larger  spheres  of  activity. 
Here  are  wanted  the  swift  veins,  the  clear 
touch,  imagination  in  directed  play;  every 
tissue  straining  at  the  leash,  ready  to  be 
off  in  whatsoever  direction  the  quarry  may 

turn. 

9 

173 


Lime/iouse  Nights 


Tom  the  Tinker,  I  say,  saw  only  one  thing 
at  a  time,  and  on  this  occasion  he  was  con- 
cerned with  the  nice  arrangement  of  the 
Bethnal  Green  jewellery  rampage.  He  did 
not,  therefore,  on  arriving  home,  observe  the 
distracted  manner  of  his  wife. 

When  he  entered  the  kitchen  of  his  house 
in  Pekin  Street,  Poplar,  he  noted  that  she 
was  there ;  and  that  was  all.  The  merest 
babe,  though  preoccupied  with  burglary  pre- 
parations, would  have  noted  more.  He 
kissed  her,  perfunctorily.  She  wound  both 
arms  about  him,  also  perfunctorily. 

"  Ding-Dong  been  here  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  said  :    "  Yes,  Ding-Dong's  been." 

"  Anything  to  say  ?  " 

"  Nope,"  she  replied,  and  continued  to  puff 
her  cigarette. 

He  sat  down,  lifted  a  smoke  from  her 
store,  and  lit  it.  His  eyes  fell  to  the  floor; 
his  hands  sought  his  pockets.  His  wife 
looked  swiftly  at  him.  He  might  have  been 
asleep. 

She  was  a  woman  who  had  passed  the  flush 
of  girlhood,  but  was  not  yet  old ;  twenty- 
nine,  maybe ;  old  enough  in  those  parts, 
though.  Still,  there  were  some  who  had  looked 
upon  her  and  found  her  not  altogether  to  be 

276 


Ding-Dong-Dell 


despised.  There  was,  for  example,  I) ing- 
Dong.  Somehow,  her  mouth  always 
tightened  when  she  thought  of  D ing-Dong  ; 
tightened,  not  in  vexation  or  as  a  mouth 
tightens  when  about  to  speak  hard  words, 
but  as  a  mouth  tightens  when  about  to  receive 
and  return  a  kiss.  As  she  sat  staring  upon 
her  lawful  mate,  Tom  the  Tinker,  she  re- 
called a  certain  amiable  night  when  Tom  had 
been  giving  his  undivided  ttention  to  a  small 
job — he  only  worked  the  small  jobs — in 
Commercial  Road,  which  had  long  needed  his 
services.  «, 

Do  you  remember  that  little  four-ale  bar, 
the  Blue  Lantern,  in  Limehouse,  and  the 
times  we  used  to  have  there  with  that  dear 
drunken  devil,  Jumbo  Brentano  ?  Well,  it 
was  there,  amid  the  spiced  atmosphere  of  the 
Orient  and  under  that  pallid  speck  of  blue 
flame,  that  Jumbo  Brentano  introduced 
Ding-Dong  to  Tom  the  Tinker  as  a  likely 
apprentice.  His  recommendation  had  taken 
the  form  that  young  Ding-Dong  was  one  of 
the  blasted  best ;  that  he'd  give  his  last 
penny  away  to  a  pal ;  that  he'd  got  the  pluck 
of  the  devil,  where  danger  was  concerned ; 
the  guts  of  a  man,  where  enterprise  was  con- 
cerned ;  and  the  heart  of  a  woman,  where 

277 


Limehouse  Nights 


fidelity  and  tenderness  were  concerned.  (This 
last  comparison  by  a  well-meaning  seeker 
after  truth  who  knew  nothing  about  Woman.) 
Moreover,  he'd  been  "  in "  five  times  for 
small  jobs,  and  had  thoroughly  fleshed  his 
teeth  in  the  more  pedestrian  paths  of  his 
profession. 

It  is  curious  to  note  that  although  Jumbo 
was  hopelessly  drunk  when  he  effected  this 
introduction  in  such  happy  prose-poetry,  he 
spoke  little  more  than  the  truth.  Can  you 
wonder,  then,  that  when  a  full-blooded  girl 
like  Myra,  wife  of  Tom  the  Tinker,  met  a  boy 
so  alive,  so  full  of  these  warm  virtues,  her 
heart  should  turn  aside  from  her  man,  who 
possessed  only  the  cold,  negative  virtues, 
and  go  out,  naked  and  unashamed,  to 
Ding-Dong  ? 

You  can't  wonder.  That  is  precisely  what 
Myra  did.  She  loved  Ding-Dong.  She 
loved  him  for  his  superb  animal  body,  and 
also  for  his  clear  honesty,  strength  and 
absurdly  beautiful  ideas  of  playing  the  game. 
She  hoped  she  had  cured  him  of  those  ideas 
on  the  night  upon  which  she  now  let  her 
memory  stretch  itself.  On  that  night  Ding- 
Dong  had  come  to  the  little  lurking  cottage 
near  the  raucous  water-side,  and  found  her 

278 


Ding-Dong-Dell 


alone ;  and,  he  being  full  of  beer  and  the  in- 
tent glee  of  the  moment,  had  tried  to  kiss 
Myra.  She  had  repulsed  him  with  a  push 
in  the  mouth  that  had  made  him  angry,  and 
he  returned  to  the  assault.  His  large,  neat 
hand  had  caught  the  collar  of  her  blouse  and 
ripped  it  fully  open.  His  free  arm  had 
slipped  her  waist  and  twisted  her  off  her  feet. 
Then  he  flew  at  her  as  a  hawk  at  its  prey. 
A  beast  leapt  within  him  and  devoured  all 
reason.  He  crushed  her  against  him,  and, 
as  their  bodies  met  in  contact,  she  gasped, 
resisted  his  embraces  with  a  brief  and  futile 
violence,  and,  the  next  moment,  he  found 
himself  holding  a  limp  and  surrendered 
body. 

**  Let  me  go,  Ding-Dong,"  she  had  cried. 

M  No;  I'll  be  damned  if  I  do  !  " 

"  I'd  just  hate  for  you  to  be  damned, 
Ding-Dong,"  she  had  said,  nestling  to  him 
with  an  expression  at  once  shy  and  wild. 
Then  wonder  awoke  within  their  hearts, 
wonder  of  themselves  and  of  one  another 
and  of  the  world,  till,  very  suddenly,  the 
beer  went  out  of  him  and  he  flung  her  aside, 
and  bowed  his  head,  and  turned  to  the 
door. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Ding-Dong  T  " 


Lime/iouse  Nights 


"'  Eh  ?  Oh,  home.  I'm  sorry.  I  fergot. 
I  was  a  bit  on,  I  think.  I  been  a  beast." 

"  No,  you  'aven't." 

"But  I  should  'ave  been,  if  I  'adn't  re- 
membered. P'r'aps  you'll  fergive  me  later 
on.  Bye-bye." 

"  But  you  ain't  really  going  ?  " 

"  Yerss." 

"  But— here— going  ?  " 

"  Yerss." 

"Well  .  .  ."  She  looked  at  him,  then 
lifted  a  delicate  finger  and  pulled  his  ear. 
"  Well  ...  you  damn  fool !  " 

And  somehow  he  felt  that  he  was. 

He  felt  it  so  keenly  that  it  seemed  to  be  up 
to  him  to  repudiate  the  soft  impeachment. 
So,  whenever  Tom  the  Tinker  was  profes- 
sionally busy,  Ling-Bong,  blond  and  beauti- 
ful and  strong  as  some  jungle  animal, 
would  come  to  the  cottage,  and  many  deliri- 
ous hours  would  be  passed  in  the  company  of 
the  lonely,  lovable  Myra. 

He  began  to  be  happy.  He  began  to  feel 
that  he  really  was  a  man.  He  was  asserting 
himself.  He  had  stolen  another  man's  wife 
— sure  cachet  of  masculinity.  At  the  same 
time  he  had  done  nothing  dirty,  since  the  man 
in  question  didn't  want  her;  had,  indeed, 

280 


Ding-Dong-Dell 


often  said  so  in  casual  asides,  uttered  in  the 
intervals  of  driving  steel  drills  through  the 
walls  of  iron  safes. 

Yes,  Ding-Dong  had  shown  that  he  was 
a  real  man  all  right ;  one  who  could  throw 
himself  about  with  the  best.  Morally,  he 
swaggered.  He  thought  of  the  maidens  he 
had  loved  :  poor  stuff.  He  thought  of  his 
pals  who  either  were  married  or  did  not  love 
at  all :  poor  stuff  entirely.  It  was  himself 
and  those  like  him  who  were  the  men. 
Masculinity,  virility  only  arrived  with 
intrigue. 

Myra  learned  to  love  him  furiously,  idiotic- 
ally. She  would  have  died  for  him.  She 
knew  by  the  very  beat  of  her  pulses  when  he 
stood  a  little  away  from  her  that  this  was  her 
man  ;  this  and  no  other.  Come  what  might 
of  dismay  and  disaster,  this  was  the  man 
ordained  for  her.  And  he  ...  did  he  love 
her  ?  I  wonder.  In  his  own  naive,  cleanly 
simple  way  he  centred  his  existence  on  her, 
but  it  was  rather  because  she  was  to  him 
Adventure ;  fire  and  salt  and  all  swiftly 
flavoured  things. 

Tom  the  Tinker  told  her  none  of  his  secrets 
or  business  affairs.  He  had  the  cheapest 
opinion  of  women,  except  for  hygienic 

281 


Limehouse  Nights 


purposes,  and  did  not  believe  in  letting  them 
know  anything  about  business  affairs  when 
they  stood  in  the  relationship  of  The  Wife. 
But  from  Ding-Dong,  in  whom  Tom  did  con- 
fide, Myra  learnt  all  she  wanted  to  know.  It 
was  from  him  that  she  had  learnt  of  the 
Bethnal  Green  jewellery  rampage,  which  was 
to  come  off  that  night ;  and  if,  as  has  been 
said,  Tom  had  been  able  to  give  his  mind  to 
more  than  one  thing  at  a  time,  he  would  have 
noted  the  evident  disturbance  which  now 
held  her,  and  have  speculated  upon  its  cause. 
Its  cause  happened  to  be  an  inspiration  which 
had  come  to  her  the  moment  Ding-Dong, 
resting  in  her  plaintive  arms  under  the  cool 
order  of  her  autumn-tinted  hair,  had  let  drop 
the  plans  for  that  night. 

Since  the  appearance  of  Ding-Dong  in  her 
musty  life  she  had  come  to  hate  Tom.  She 
hated  him  because  he  had  drawn  her  into  the 
bonds  of  matrimony,  and  then  had  shown  her 
that  he  regarded  her  as  only  a  physical  neces- 
sity. She  hated  him  for  his  mistrust  of  her, 
for  his  reticence  and  for  the  sorry  figure  he 
cut  against  the  vibrant  Ding-Dong.  She 
was  ripe  to  do  him  an  injury,  but,  by  his 
silence  about  his  affairs,  he  gave  her  no 
chance.  And  now  Ding-Dong  had,  all 

282 


Ding-Dong-Dell 


innocently,  placed  in  her  hands  the  weapon  by 
which  she  could  strike  him  and  force  him  to 
suffer  something  of  what  she  had  suffered  as 
a  matrimonial  prisoner.  He  should  have  a 
taste  of  the  same  stuff.  She  knew  that  once 
he  was  nabbed  a  good  stretch  was  awaiting 
him — five  years  at  least — since  he  had  long 
been  wanted  by  the  local  police.  She  might, 
of  course,  have  surrendered  him  at  any  time, 
but  that  would  have  meant  an  appearance 
in  the  witness  box,  and  she  did  not  wish  to 
play  the  role  of  the  treacherous  wife ;  much 
better  to  let  the  blow  descend  from  out  of  the 
void. 

Half -past  twelve  was  the  time  fixed  for  the 
meeting  between  Ding-Dong  and  Tom,  and  it 
was  now  ten  o'clock.  Tom  still  sprawled  by 
the  fire,  staring  cataleptically  at  the  carpet, 
and  presently  Myra  languidly  stretched 
herself  and  got  up. 

"  Got  no  beer  in  the  house,"  she  said, 
addressing  the  kitchen  at  large.  "  I'll  just 
pop  round  to  Lizzie's  and  borrow  a  couple  of 
bottles." 

She  swung  out  of  the  kitchen,  sped  swiftly 
upstairs,  found  a  hat  and  cloak,  and  slipped 
from  the  house.  But  she  did  not  go  towards 
Lizzie's.  She  went  into  East  India  Dock 

283 


Lime/iouse  Nights 


Road  and  across  to  a  narrow  courtyard. 
Leaning  against  a  post  at  its  entrance  was  a 
youth  of  about  eighteen,  a  frayed  Woodbine 
drooping  from  his  lips. 

"  That  you,  Monico  ?  "  she  asked,  peering 
through  the  gloom. 

"  You've  clicked." 

"  D'you  know  where  Wiggy  is  ?  Go'n 
find  'im  for  me." 

The  youth  departed,  and  presently  a  greasy 
figure  shuffled  out  of  the  courtyard  ;  a  figure 
known  and  hated  and  feared  in  that  district ; 
Wiggy,  the  copper's  nark.  He  looked  up  at 
the  woman,  who  had  drawn  a  purple  veil 
across  her  face.  "  Wodyeh  want  ?  " 

She  told  him.  For  three  minutes  she  held 
him  in  talk.  Then  she  disappeared  as  swiftly 
as  she  had  come,  disappeared  in  the  direction 
of  Pennyfields.  At  the  corner  of  Pennyfields 
is  a  fried-fish  bar.  She  entered. 

"  D'you  know  a  boy  called  Ding-Dong — 
comes  in  here  every  night  ?  Big,  fair- 
haired." 

"  Yerss,  I  know  Jim." 

"  Has  he  been  in  yet  ?  " 

"  Nit.  I'm  expectin'  'im,  though.  'As 
supper  'ere  every  night  'bout  this  time." 

"  That's  right.  Well,  when  he  comes,  will 
284 


Ding-Dong-Dell 


you  tell  him — and  say  it's  most  particular — 
that  they've  changed  the  time.  It  was  to  be 
half-past  twelve,  but  they've  changed  it  to 
one  o'clock.  Just  tell  'im  that,  will  you  ? 
He'll  understand.  One  o'clock  'stead  of  half- 
past  twelve.  See  ?  " 

"  Right-o.     I'll  see  'e  gets  it." 

"  Thanks."  And  homeward  she  went,  call- 
ing on  the  way  for  the  two  bottles  of  beer 
which  had  been  the  ostensible  purpose  of  her 
errand. 

Tom  still  sat  where  she  had  left  him,  and 
refused  any  supper.  He  was  going  out,  he 
said,  and  would  have  supper  with  some 
friends.  She  needn't  sit  up  for  him.  So  she 
took  the  two  bottles  up  to  her  bedroom  and 
sat  in  a  hammock  chair,  drinking  stout,  which 
she  found  very  comforting,  and  waiting 
anxiously  for  the  hour  when  Tom  would 
depart. 

At  five  minutes  to  twelve  she  heard  the 
door  slam,  and  she  knew  that  revenge  was 
very  near.  Punishment  would  now  swiftly 
fall  upon  the  hated  Tom  the  Tinker,  and 
freedom  would  be  hers  and  the  joy  of  Ding- 
Dong's  continual  presence.  She  opened  the 
second  bottle  and  drank  to  her  new  life.  Oh, 
she  was  a  smart  girl,  she  knew ;  she  was  the 

285 


Limehouse  Nights 


wily  one  ;  she  had  'em  all  beaten.  Life  was 
]ust  beginning  for  her,  and,  under  the  in- 
fluence of  the  stout,  she  dreamed  a  hazy 
dream  of  rejuvenation ;  how  she  would 
blossom  into  new  strength  and  beauty  under 
the  admiring  eyes  and  the  careful  minis- 
trations of  her  Ding-Dong.  Farewell  the 
dingy  little  back  kitchen.  Farewell  the  life 
of  slavery  and  contempt.  Farewell  the 
wretched  folk  among  whom  she  had  been 
forced  to  live  wliile  Tom  pursued  his  dirty 
work.  Hail  to  the  new  world  and  the  new 
life! 

Her  head  nodded,  and  for  a  few  minutes 
she  dozed.  She  was  awakened  by  the  sound 
of  a  creaking  window.  Then  footsteps — 
stealthy,  stuttering  steps.  They  came  up 
the  stairway. 

D ing-Dong !  She  knew  his  step.  Her 
plan  had  come  off.  Tom  had  been  nabbed 
by  the  cops ;  Ding-Dong  had  arrived  half- 
an-hour  after  the  appointed  time ;  had 
waited  for  Tom ;  found  that  he  had  not 
arrived,  and  so  had  come  to  his  place  to 
make  inquiries.  Oh,  joy  !  Now  that  Tom 
was  taken,  nothing  that  anyone  could  do 
could  save  him ;  so  that  it  would  be  left  to 
them  only  to  enjoy  the  blessed  gift  that 

286 


Ding-Dong-Dell 


the  gods  had  given  to  them ;  and  by  the 
time  Tom  came  out  again  she  would  have 
won  Ding-Dong  entirely  for  herself,  and 
he  would  have  taken  her  to  Australia  or 
America. 

The  step  stopped  at  her  door,  the  handle 
was  turned  and  in  walked  the  intruder.  She 
stared  at  him  for  a  moment,  then  a  low,  non- 
descript cry  burst  from  her  throat :  the  cry 
of  a  cornered  animal. 

Tom  the  Tinker  came  into  her  bedroom. 
He  was  more  agitated  than  she  had  ever 
known  him  to  be.  He  showed  no  surprise  at 
finding  her  out  of  bed.  On  his  shirt,  just 
where  his  tie  failed  to  cover  it,  were  spots  of 
blood.  He  sank  into  a  chair. 

"  Myra,  old  woman,  I'm  done.  There's 
been  some  rough  stuff.  I  'ad  a  job  on,  at 
Bethnal  Green.  With  Ding-Dong.  On'y  'e 
was  late.  'Alf-an-hour  late.  If  'e'd  bin  on 
time  we  could  'a'  done  it  and  fixed  our  get- 
away. But  'e  was  late.  And  the  cops  must 
have  'ad  the  office.  I  didn't  wait.  I  went  in 
alone,  and  when  I  'card  the  jerry  I  up  and  off 
over  the  wall  at  the  back,  where  it  was  clear. 
But  just  as  I  up  and  off,  old  Ding-Dong, 
'earing  the  schlemozzle,  come  running  up, 
and  they  copped  'im  fair.  I  slipped  round 


Limehouse  Nights 


to  see,  and  he  lashed  out  and  sent  a  cop 
down  with  a  jemmy.  Then  they  drew  their 
whackers  and  smashed  him  on  the  'ead.  He 
fell  kinder  sideways,  and  come  with  'is  'ead 
crack  on  the  kerb.  'E's  dead  now.  Dead. 
I  'card  it  from  Paris  Pete,  who  followed  'em 
up  to  the  station.  Dead,  'e  is.  'E  was  a 
blasted  good  feller.  .  .  .  Well,  I  levanted, 
but  I  reckon  they  got  me  taped  somehow. 
I  'it  one  of  the  cops — 'it  Mm  'ard.  And  now 
I  got  to  lie  under  a  bit,  till  it's  blown  over. 
I'm  all  right,  I  think ;  they  don't  know  me. 
I  bin  too  careful  alwis.  They  don't  know  I 
b'long  'ere.  So  I'm  all  right,  if  you'll  stand 
in,  old  woman.  You  won't  let  on,  will  yeh  ? 
Nobody  knows  about  it  but  you  and  D ing- 
Dong.  And  'e's  dead.  They'll  never  git  me 
unless  you  go  back  on  me.  You'll  'ave  to 
play  up  a  bit,  cos  I  sha'n't  be  able  to  git  about 
at  all  for  a  bit.  You'll  'elp  us  out,  old 
woman,  won't  yeh  ?  I  bin  a  good  'usban'  to 
yeh,  ain't  I  ?  I  ain't  never  let  yeh  want  for 
nothing,  'ave  I  ? '  She  seemed  to  catch 
a  sob  in  his  throat.  "  OP  Ding-Dong  .  .  ." 
he  stammered.  "  Blasted  good  feller.  .  .  . 
Dead,  'e  is.  Yeh  won't  go  back  on  me,  will 
yeh  ?  " 

She  flung  herself  back  in  the  hammock  and 
288 


Ding-Dong-Dell 


laughed,  a  high,  hollow,  staccato  laugh,  in 
which  was  weariness  and  bitterness. 

u  Oh  ...  that's  all  right,  Tom.  Yerss 
.  .  .  I'll  .  .  .  I'll  stand  in.  Oh,  but  it's 
dam  funny  .  .  ."  And  she  went  off  into 
peals  of  muffled  laughter. 


189 


Old  Joe 


MR    PETER  PUNDITT    nipped  out 
of  his  little  newsagent's  and  tobac- 
conist's shop  in  West  India  Dock 
Road,  carrying  in  his  hand  a  large,  damp 
sheet i  smelling  strongly  of  the  press.     This 
he   carefully  pasted   over  a   demurely  com- 
placent contents  bill  of  The  Telegraph,  and 
then  stepped  back  to  look  at  it  in  the  grey 
incertitude   of   the   Limehouse   twilight.     It 

read  : 

PUNDITT'S  ONE-HORSE  SNIP 

One  Penny  Daily 
Is  Away  from  Everything 

Who  Gave 

PAINTED  LADY 

GOLD  CUP? 

It  was  to  be  noted  that  Mr  Punditt,  from 
motives  of  modesty  or  wariness,  refrained 
from  throwing  any  light  on  his  part  in  this 
dubious  transaction. 

With  cocked  head  and  silently  whistling 
lips  he  contemplated  his  work,  recognising, 
with  some  satisfaction,  how  much  more 
arresting  was  his  bill  than  that  of  Gale's 
Monday  Night  Special,  by  whose  side  it  stood. 
He  was  just  about  to  nip  in  again,  when  he 
heard  a  weak,  erratic  step  behind  him,  and, 

293 


Limehouse  Nights 


turning,  beheld  a  youth  of  about  twenty, 
with  sallow,  pimply  face,  slack-mouthed  and 
furtive.  An  unlit  Woodbine  dropped  from 
his  lips. 

Little  Peter  Punditt,  the  smartest  bookie 
in  Limehouse,  Poplar  and  Blackwall,  turned 
swiftly  about.  "Well?" 

"  Er — look  'ere,  Punditt,  o'  man,  I'm — 
I'm  'fraid  I  sha'n't  be  able  to  manage 
anything.  Y'see " 

"  Oh  !  "  Punditt  regarded  the  weed  in 
front  of  him  with  an  airy  tolerance.  "  Oh  I 
Yeh  can't  manage  anything,  can't  yeh  ?  Yer 
afraid,  are  yeh  ?  .  .  .  Look  'ere,  that  kind  'o 
talk  is  twos  into  one  wiv  me.  See  ?  " 

"  Two's  into- 

"  Yerss.  It  won't  go.  It's  Punditt  what's 
talking  to  yeh.  Yeh  know  Punditt's  way  wiv 
bilkers,  doncher  ?  Before  I've  finished  wiv 
a  bilker  he's  wishing  he'd  collected  stamps 
instead." 

"  Yes,  but  ...  I  mean  ...  I  ...  It 
was  your  tips  what  I  followed.  You  let  me 
down  every  time.  Every  time.  You  said 
this  last  was  a  cert.,  and  I  put  me  shirt  on  it, 
and " 

"  An'  if  I  did  ?  Who  th'ell  arst  yeh  to 
back  'orses  at  all  ?  Eh  ?  Did  I  arst  yeh  to 

294 


Old  Joe 

buy  Pundltt's  One-Horse  Snip  ?  Eh  ?  Yeh 
lose  yer  money,  then  yeh  come  whinin'  rahnd 
'ere  wiv  a  face  abaht  as  cheerful  as  cold  boiled 
potatoes  on  a  foggy  night.  Did  I  arst  ye 
to  put  yer  money  on — eh  ?  "  His  tone 
changed.  "  Look  'ere — don't  get  gay  wiv 
me,  me  boy.  Cos  gettin'  gay  wiv  me's  about 
as  'ealthy  as  monkeying  wiv  a  buzz-saw. 
See  ?  You  just  got  to  settle  up.  I  gave 
y'an  extra  fortnight,  and  it's  up  to-day. 
Lessee  ...  Monday,  ain't  it  ?  Tell  yeh 
what  I'll  do — an'  I  don't  go  as  far  wiv  most 
people — I'll  give  yeh  two  days  more.  If  yeh 
don't  brass  up  by  Wednesday  night — then 
I'll  see  that  yeh  get  it  where  the  bottle  got 
the  cork.  That  plain  enough  for  yeh  ?  " 

He  wagged  a  minatory  finger  wearing  a 
thick  band  of  mourning  in  the  nail.  "  Y'know 
what  I  can  do  to  you,  doncher,  sonny  ?  A 
dozen  words  out  of  my  mouth,  and  .  .  . 
Wow-wow.  You  be  good,  and  don't  make 
me  do  it." 

The  boy  spluttered,  with  vociferant  hands. 
"  No,  but,  Punditt,  o'  man,  how  can  I  ? 
How  can  I  get  it  ?  There  ain't  no  way.  I 
mean— 

"  Don't  matter  a  shake  of  a  nannygoat's 
tail  to  me  where  yeh  git  it  or  Jow  yeh  get  it. 

295 


Lime/iouse  Nights 


Yeh  got  to  get  it  by  Wednesday — that's  all. 
Else  ..."  He  threw  his  arms  to  the  street, 
lifted  both  hands,  thumbs  protruding  up- 
wards. With  dramatic  pantomime  he  re- 
versed his  hands,  thumbs  pointing  fatefully 
downwards.  "  Fumbs  up,  Punditt.  Fumbs 
down,  Perce  Sleep.  Three  quid  by  Wednes- 
day, mind.  Get  a  sudden  rush  of  brains  to 
the  'ead  and  perduce  it ;  otherwise  .  .  ." 
he  lingered  on  the  word — "  otherwise — I 
shall  behave  in  a  very  varicose  vein,  I  can 
teU  yeh." 

"  No,  but,  Punditt,  I " 

"  Suffish.  Make  a  noise  like  a  hoop  and 
roll  away  !  " 

From  his  pallid  face  the  boy  expressed  the 
bitter  essence  of  contempt  which  the  weak 
have  for  all  that  is  pitiless  and  strong.  His 
mouth  made  rude  noises.  His  fingers  inter- 
preted them.  He  went  away  grieved,  for  he 
had  no  possessions.  He  slouched  away,  his 
feet  seeming  not  in  complete  accord  with  his 
knees.  A  lurid  sunset  turned  a  last  sickly 
smile  upon  him  before  it  died. 

It  was  Peter  Punditt  who  had  spoken,  and 
he  knew  it  was  the  last  word.  He  knew  what 
Peter  could  do  for  him.  He  knew  what  Peter 
knew  about  a  certain  affair  in  Amoy  Place. 

296 


Old  Joe 

His  floury  face,  flecked  with  pimples,  slacked 
some  degrees  further,  and  he  went  miserably 
down  the  road.  He  hated  the  look  of  it.  He 
had  quarrels  with  God  and  man  and  all  creep- 
ing things,  and  his  legs  loathed  the  pavement. 
He  was  smitten  and  afflicted.  He  thought 
he  would  like  to  creep  away  and  die.  He 
thought  comfortably  upon  death,  and  was 
rather  sorry  he  had  not  told  Peter  that  he 
would  throw  himself  in  the  river  that  night. 
Yes ;  he  could  die  and  leave  a  note  that 
would  put  the  fair  khybosh  on  old  Peter 
Punditt.  Mentally,  he  wrote  the  note, 
showing  up  old  Punditt. 

But  three  quid.  .  .  .  Was  there  as  much 
money  anywhere  in  the  world  ?  If  only  he'd 
been  in  regular  work  now — when  he  kept  the 
petty  cash  at  the  warehouse.  .  .  . 

Oh,  blast  it.  It  didn't  bear  thinking 
about.  Blast  everybody.  He  hated  the 
world.  He  hated  the  sky.  He  hated  his 
home  and  all  that  was  in  it.  No  good  going 
home.  No  good  mooning  about  the  streets. 
No  good  in  anything,  so  far  as  one  could  see. 
He  stopped  near  the  bridge  of  the  Isle  of 
Dogs  and  glowered  upon  the  river  and  upon 
smoke-stack,  rigging  and  sail. 

The  evening  was  at  once  heartsome  and 
297 


Lime/iouse  Nights 


subdued.  On  the  deck  of  a  Nippon  the  dear, 
drunken  devi  s  of  yellow  seamen  were  making 
soft  music  on  Chinese  guitars.  A  steady 
frost  had  sett  ed  and,  with  complete  dark- 
ness, the  usually  lowering  streets  of  the 
Asiatic  quarter  seemed  strangely  wide  and 
frank.  A  fat-faced  moon  was  slowly  rising. 
The  waters  were  swift  and  limpid,  sprinkled 
with  timid  stars,  and  seemed  to  promise  a 
very  blessed  time  to  the  weary.  On  the 
corner  by  the  dock  gates  the  Blue  Lantern 
shone  sharp,  like  a  cut  gem.  He  lounged 
over  the  side  of  the  bridge,  and,  so  still  was 
the  night,  he  could  almost  hear  a  goods 
train  shunt.  It  was  still  enough  to  bring 
from  a  narrow  street,  flanked  by  two  tre- 
mendous walls,  a  curious  sound  of  sup-sup, 
sup-sup. 

Perce  Sleep  heard  it.  "  Bloody  Chinks  !  " 
he  growled.  The  next  moment  the  sup-sup 
came  from  behind  him,  and  a  hand  fell  on  his 
shoulder.  A  yellow  face  peered  at  him.  It 
was  old,  flabby,  steamy. 

"  'Ullo,  li'l  Perce  !  "  The  words  came  so 
musically  that  one  would  have  said  they  were 
sung. 

"  'Ullo,  Chopstick.  Gointer  buy  us  a 
besr  ?  " 

•98 


Old  Joe 

"  Les.  Co'long  Shaik  Yip.  Have  plelty 
beer." 

"Aw  right.  Look  'ere,  Chinky,  I'm  in  a 
mess.  You're  all  right  for  the  ready,  every- 
one says.  Got  a  pot  o'  the  dibs,  I  reckon. 
Now  look  'ere  .  .  .  would  you  ...  I  mean 
.  .  .  will  yeh  be  a  sport,  and " 

"  Ao."  Shaik  Yip  smiled  a  meaningless 
Oriental  smile.  '*  Perce  want  money.  Ao. 
Pu'ce  and  Shaik  Yip  talk  business.  Co'long. 
Co'long." 

And  they  entered  the  Blue  Lantern  and 
ordered  two  Gypsy's  Warnings  and  some  of 
the  Nearer-my-God-to-Thee  sandwiches. 
......  . 

The  Sleep  manage  was  not  such  as  one 
would  turn  to  happily,  when  weary,  for  repose. 
Perce  lived  with  his  stepfather,  a  paralytic, 
and  the  old  man's  daughter,  a  "  softie."  The 
old  man,  a  mass  of  helpless  flesh,  lived  in  a 
chair  by  the  fireside.  He  had  been  a  steve- 
dore in  his  time,  and  his  great  shaggy  head, 
his  rolling  shoulders,  and  the  long,  thick 
arms,  all  now  as  white  and  motionless  as 
death,  to!d  a  tale  of  superb  strength  in  youth. 
There  he  sat  now,  and  there  he  was  fed  and 
tended  and  washed.  The  only  life  that  had 
been  left  him  was  his  voice,  and  of  this  there 

"99 


Limehouse  Nights 


only  remained  a  thin  piping,  so  that  he  was 
known  locally  as  Old  Joe,  after  that  Fleet 
Street  notability  who,  every  morning  at 
ten-thirty  in  the  Fourth  Edition,  gives  the 
world  his  famous  treble. 

His  daughter,  a  slip  of  a  girl,  was  the 
mother  of  the  house.  Her  face  had  that  arrest- 
ing beauty  sometimes  seen  in  the  faces  of  the 
vacant-minded.  There  was  nothing  of  the 
idiot  about  her,  save  in  her  talk  and  her 
simple  character.  She  managed  the  house, 
and  she  managed  Old  Joe,  and  she  strove 
hard  to  manage  the  waster,  Perce. 

"Wis'ful,"  someone  had  said.  "  Wis'ful 
— that's  'ow  she  looks.  Like  as  if  she  was 
wanting  to  catch  'old  of  something  that  ain't 
there." 

As  for  Perce,  he  only  ate  and  drank  and 
slept  at  the  house,  and  had  little  to  do  with 
Fanny,  save  to  borrow  coppers  from  her. 

"  A  wicked  boy,"  piped  Old  Joe.  "  That's 
what  'e  is.  Never  tries  to  get  work.  Got  one 
job,  and  got  sacked  from  that,  and  ain't  done 
a  stroke  since.  'Anging  about  pubs  and 
mixin'  wiv  wasters.  Grr  !  'E'll  end  in  gaol, 
mark  what  I  say.  Blast  'im.  Arr.  .  .  . 
Fanny's  the  good  girl.  Where'd  we  all  be  if 
it  wasn't  for  Fanny  ?  Looks  after  us  and 

300 


Old  Joe 

keeps  us  all  going.  Does  anything  to  keep 
the  'ome  together,  doncher,  me  gel  ?  Goes 
out  charing,  or  does  needlework.  Clever  wiv 
'er  needle,  she  is.  But  that  blasted  Perce. 
Grr !  I'd  spit  on  'im.  I'd  turn  'im  out  the 
'ouse  if  I  could.  But  Je  won't  go.  Cos  Je 
knows  I'm  'elpless  and  can't  do  nothing. 
Not  if  *e  struck  me  I  couldn't  do  nothink. 
An'  Vs  nearly  done  it,  oncer  twice.  The 
blasted  drunken  little  waster.  Gawd — if  I'd 
a-got  my  strength  back — I'd  learn  'im.  You 
dunno — nobody  dunno — what  I've  'ad  to  put 
up  wiv  from  'im — all  cos  I  can't  move — an' 
Je  knows  it.  Things  'e's  said  to  me.  Things 
Vs  done.  Gawd.  Dunno  what  I've  a-done 
that  I  should  'ave  to  put  up  .  .  ." 

Whereupon  he  would  collapse  and  weep 
cold  tears  down  his  huge  white  face,  and 
Fanny  would  run  in  from  her  daily  work,  or 
drop  her  sewing,  and  paw  him  and  talk  baby- 
talk  to  him. 

He  was  right  about  Perce,  though.  Perce 
was  the  boy  for  fancy  waistcoats  and  the 
private  bar.  Perce  was  the  boy  for  the 
athletic  saloon — as  an  onlooker.  Perce  was 
the  boy  for  hanging  on  the  fringe  of  those 
who  lead  the  impetuous  life.  But  Perce  was 
never  the  boy  for  a  fight  or  an  adventure  or 

301 


Limehouse  Nights 


a  woman,  or  for  any  indulgence  that  called 
for  quality.  Perce  was  the  complete  rotter. 

Perce  was  the  boy  to  glower  upon  the  help- 
less giant  and  tell  him  off.  "  Oh,  shut  up," 
he'd  snarl.  '*  You  ought  to  be  in  a  work'ouse, 
you  did.  Or  else  in  a  play.  Cut  yer  blasted 
yap,  cancher,  yer  rotten  old  nuisance  ! " 

And  the  old  man  would  return,  shrilly  and 
tearfully  :  "  I'm  sorry,  Perce,  me  boy.  But 
I'm  an  old  man,  y'know,  and  queer.  And  I 
sits  'ere  all  day  and  all  night,  and  I  can't  'elp 
feeling  things.  I  know  yer  a  good  boy,  really, 
though  yeh  do  speak  sharp  sometimes.  .  .  . 
Arr  .  .  .  if  only  Gawd'd  give  me  back  my 
strength,  I  could  work  for  all  of  us.  Me, 
strongest  man  in  London  Docks,  and  now 
a-sitting  'ere  day  and  night,  day  and  night, 
day  and  night." 

On  the  Monday  night  he  did  not  come  home, 
and  Old  Joe  was  wondering  where  he  might 
be,  and  hoping  to  Christ  he'd  tumbled  in  the 
river ;  and  Fanny,  too,  on  Tuesday  night, 
was  wondering  and  laying  the  supper,  and 
hoping  nothing  had  happened,  and  assuring 
Old  Joe  that  Perce  was  a  nice,  good  boy. 

At  eight  o'clock  a  step  sounded  in  the 
cadaverous  darkness  of  Bluegate  Lane,  and 
Perce  came  in.  His  key  rattled  in  the  door, 

302 


Old  Joe 

and  words  passed  between  him  and  another. 
He  was  hearo}  to  wipe  his  boots — a  thing  he 
had  never  been  known  to  do.  He  seemed  to 
be  walking  uncertainly,  with  many  feet. 

Then  the  kitchen  door  was  snatched  open 
by  Fanny,  the  soft,  and  Perce  was  heard  by 
her  and  Old  Joe  to  murmur  :  "  Tha'll  be  all 
right." 

But  only  Perce  entered  the  kitchen. 

He  sank  at  once  into  a  chair,  as  though 
wearied  almost  to  exhaustion.  He  stretched 
his  legs  so  that  fatigue  might  express  itself  in 
every  line  of  his  figure.  He  lit  a  Woodbine. 
Supper  was  on  the  table — some  bread  and 
pickles  and  cheese,  knives,  and  a  jug  of  beer. 
He  grabbed  the  jug  to  his  mouth  and  drank 
noisily  from  it,  and  angrily,  as  though  he 
were  at  last  getting  his  rights  from  the 
world. 

"  Well,  old  'un,"  he  tossed  at  the  old  man, 
perfunctorily,  by  way  of  salutation.  He 
strove  to  put  warmth  and  jocularity  in  the 
tone,  but  his  face  and  lips  remained  stiff  and 
cold.  He  smacked  his  hands  together.  "  Ah, 
well,"  he  observed  to  the  room  generally. 
He  looked  critically  at  his  hands.  "  Finger- 
nails want  cutting,"  he  remarked  inconse- 
quently.  Old  Joe  took  no  notice  of  his 


Limehouse  Nig/its 


greeting  ;   did  not  look  at  him  ;   seemed  to  be 
intent  on  something  known  only  to  himself. 

"  'Ere,  Fanny-baby,"  called  Perce,  "  want 
you  a  minute." 

"  What  you  want  Fanny  for,  Percy -boy  ?  " 

"  Go  up  t'your  bedroom,  will  yeh,  and  get 
those  scissors." 

"  Here's  pair  scissors  here." 

"  Yes,  but  ...  I  want  th'other  pair.  The 
small  ones  in  your  room." 

"  'Go's  that  in  th'ouse  ?  "  snapped  Old  Joe, 
with  pistol-shot  explosion.  "  Someone's  in 
th'ouse.  I  can  feel  it  1  " 

"  Can't  Percy -boy  go'mself  ?  "  prattled 
Fanny. 

"  No — too  tired.  You  go — there's  a  goo'  girl. 
Then  I'll  buy  you  some  chocolate  biscuits." 
He  looked  covertly  to  right  and  left. 

"Awright.  Fanny  go.  Cho-co-late  bis- 
cuits ! "  she  sang,  to  no  tune. 

"  Fanny  !  "  Old  Joe  bit  off  the  words. 
"  You  stop  'ere  !  " 

Perce  slewed  round.  "  Whaffor,  old  'un  ? 
Why  can't  she  go  ?  " 

"  'Cos  I  don't  want  'er  to.  Fanny — stop. 
Stop  'ere !  " 

"  Whaffor,  daddie  dear  ?  Why  daddie  not 
want  Fanny  to  go  ?  " 

304 


Old  Joe 

"  Cos  I  ...  I  ...  want  yeh.  There's 
something  .  .  .  something  going  on.  I 
.  .  .  don't  understand.  I  can  feel  it.  All 
round,  like.  Perce,  me  boy,  what  you  look- 
ing like  that  for  ?  Eh  ?  Whassup  ?  You 
got  some  game  on,  Perce.  Go's  that  in 
th'ouse  ?  " 

Perce  affected  not  to  hear.  "  Go  on,  Fan, 
there's  goo'  girl.  Up  yeh  go.  Old  man's  got 
the  fair  fantods  to-night." 

"  Fanny ! "  It  was  a  shrill  scream, 
strained  with  effort.  "  Don't  you  go.  It's 
yer  old  dad  tells  yeh.  For  the  love  of  God 
Almighty,  don't  go.  There's  something  ...  I 
know.  I  can  feel  it.  I  can  tell  it  by  that 
beast's  face.  What's  'e  want  cutting  'is  nails 
this  time  o'  night  ?  " 

Fanny  ran  to  him,  crooning.  "Daddie 
musn't  call  Percy  a  beast.  Percy  good 
brother  to  Fanny.  Going  to  buy  Fanny 
chocolate  biscuits." 

"  Yerss,"  said  Perce,  "  don't  call  me  names 
like  that  else  I'll  make  a  rough  'ouse,  I  tell 
yeh.  If  yeh  wasn't  a  blasted  cripple  I'd 
clump  yeh  one  fer  that.  See  ?  " 

The  great  Windsor  chair  in  which  the  old 
man  was  imprisoned  shook  with  his  efforts  to 
raise  his  piping  treble.  "Fanny — Fanny — 
u  305 


Lime/iouse  Nights 


stop  !  I  tell  yeh,  stop  !  For  the  love  of  the 
Lord  Jesus  Christ,  stay  'ere." 

"  No.  Fanny  go  get  scissors.  You  not 
good,  daddie.  You  call  brother  beast."  And, 
with  a  beautiful  smile  through  which  nothing 
could  be  even  divined  of  the  empty  mind  it 
clothed,  she  slipped  through  the  door  and 
disappeared  up  the  stairs,  laughing  and  sing- 
ing, "  Cho-co-late  biscuits  1  " 

The  old  man  moaned.  His  head  dropped 
and  wagged.  His  mouth  spat  toads  in  the 
shape  of  curses  at  Perce.  Perce  moved  away. 
His  face  was  slate-grey.  He  was  limp,  and 
looked  as  self-controlled  as  a  rabbit  about  to 
be  slaughtered.  He  peered  into  the  passage, 
then  passed  out,  and  the  old  man  heard  his 
step  ascending  the  stair.  He  caught  the  lazy 
hum  of  voices  busy  in  talk.  He  heard  two 
words,  in  syrupy  accents,  which  he  under- 
stood :  Pao-pei !  He  heard  Fanny's  baby 
accents.  *'  Can't  find  scissors  !  Someone's 
taken  scissors.  Can't  find  candle,  neether. 
Someone's  taken  matches,  too." 

He  heard  Perec's  voice.  "  Wait  half-a- 
jiff,  Fan.  Can't  yeh  find  the  matches? 
'Ere  .  .  .  Fan  .  .  .  'ere.  Listen.  Some- 
thing nice  for  yeh,  if  yeh'll  be  a  good  girl. 
'Ere  .  .  .  lots  of  choc'late  biscuits.  Look  • .  • 

306 


Old  Joe 

no ;  can't  'ave  them  yet.  In  a  minute  or  two. 
'Ere,  don't  be  silly.  .  .  .  No  .  .  .  Just  .  .  . 
Go  on.  .  .  .  No,  it  isn't.  .  .  ." 

A  door  clicked,  and  swiftly  Perce  descended 
the  stairs,  and  entered  the  kitchen.  He  was 
breathing  rapidly. 

"  What  you  go  up  for  ?  "  whined  Old  Joe. 
"  Eh  ?  Oh,  I  know  there's  something  .  .  . 
something  going  to  'appen.  I  can  feel  it." 

Perce  swaggered.  "  You  blasted  invalids 
are  alwis  feeling  and  seeing  things  that  ain't 
there.  You'll  see  blue  monkeys  next." 

Old  Joe  rocked  himself.  From  above 
there  came  a  second  click ;  moving  feet. 
There  was  a  moment's  silence,  then,  shatter- 
ing it,  a  soft  cry,  a  long-drawn  whoosh  and 
a  muffled  scream.  The  scream  was  but  a 
single  note,  and  thereafter  came  only  non- 
descript low  noises. 

The  old  man  mouthed  and  gibbered.  He 
heaved  himself  idiotically  in  his  chair.  '*  Oh, 
my  Gawd.  If  I'd  a-got  my  strength.  Owh. 
What  are  they  doing  to  'er  ?  What  you  up 
to,  yeh  bleeding  swine !  Owh.  If  Gawd 
don't  strike  you  dead  for  this.  Owh  .  .  . 
hark  at  'er  .  .  .  my  lamb  .  .  .  my  .  .  .  O 
Lord  Jesus  Christ,  save  'er ! 

"  Oh,  Perce,  dear  ...  go  up  and  stop  'em. 
307 


Umehouse  Nights 


Stop  their  devils'  work.  Fanny  !  Fanny  ! 
What  they  doing  to  yeh  ?  "  The  great  white 
cheeks  sagged  in  many  creases  as  he  fought 
for  movement.  The  heavy  arms  on  each  side 
of  the  chair  dangled  like  puppets.  "  Oh, 
Gawd,  if  I  could  find  out  what  they  was  doing. 
Oh,  if  I'd  a-got  my  strength  1  " 

'*  Oh,  shut  yeh  blasted  mag,  for  Christ's 
sake  !  "  Perce  dropped  into  a  chair  and 
sat  scared  and  pensive.  Three  long  gasps 
came  down  the  stairway — rhythmic,  regular, 
punctuated  by  a  dull  noise. 

"  Perce  !  Oh,  if  I'd  a-got  my  strength  .  .  . 
oh,  I'd  squeeze  yer  throat.  Owh.  I  could 
a-killed  you  wiv  one  'and.  Kill  'im,  Gawd  1 
Kill  'im  !  Strike  the  bleeder  dead  !  Or  give 
me  back  me  arms.  O-o-wh  !  " 

And  now  he  blubbered  and  whined  and 
entreated.  Big  tears  ran  down  the  doughy 
face.  He  writhed.  "  Oh,  Perce — be  a  good 
boy  and  stop  'em  before  it's  too  late.  I  can't 
bear  it.  It'll  drive  me  mad.  I  can't  listen 
to  it.  ...  Oh,  stop  yer  devils'  work  and 
bring  'er  down.  My  bonny  li'l  gel.  .  .  .  Owh. 
I'd  learn  'em  to  put  their  slimy  'ands  on  'er. 
If  I'd  a-got  my  strength,  I'd " 

"  Well,  you  'aven't.  So  shut  yeh  silly 
face."  Perce  got  up  and  lit  another  Wood- 

308 


Old  Joe 

bine.  He  looked  down  uneasily  at  Old  Joe, 
yet  confident  of  security  in  the  utter  helpless- 
ness of  the  living  corpse.  "  Yeh  wasting 
yeh  breath,  that's  what  yeh  doing.  There's 
nothing  to  make  a  fuss  about.  Nothing. 
She  ain't  being  murdered.  And  they  ain't 
doing  the  other  thing,  what  you  think.  It's 
on'y  a  bit  o'  fun.  Yeh  needn't  worry.  I 
take  me  oath  she  ain't  being  .  .  .  you  know, 
or  anything.  She'll  'ave  forgotten  all  about 
it  five  minutes  after.  On'y  a  bit  o'  sport, 
that's  all.  I  got  some  principles,  though 
you  think  I  ain't,  y'old  perisher.  All  yer 
swearing  don't  do  no  good,  and  yer 
fists  can't.  And  yer  making  a  blasted 
fuss  about  nothing  at  all.  Nothing  at  all. 
So " 

He  broke  off.  For  a  moment  he  wondered 
why.  He  had  stopped  instinctively  because 
something  else  had  stopped  :  the  little  cries 
and  gasps. 

A  door  clicked.  A  step  sounded.  Some- 
one came  downstairs.  The  old  man  rolled 
from  side  to  side,  slobbering  and  dribbling. 
He  had  the  appearance  of  one  very  drunk. 
Round  the  half-shut  door  slid  a  large,  stoop- 
ing Chinky,  flashily  dressed  in  East  End 
ready-mades.  Under  the  yellow  skin  was  a 

309 


Limehousc  Nights 


slow  flush.  His  eyes  sparkled.  His  thin, 
black  hair  was  disordered. 

He  moved  towards  Perce.  Three  coins 
jingled  from  his  hand  to  the  stretched  hand 
of  Perce.  Old  Joe  wobbled.  He  saw  them  ; 
they  were  gold.  He  jerked  his  head  forward 
and  let  out — so  suddenly  that  both  men 
jumped — a  high-pitched  shout,  louder  and 
stronger  than  any  he  had  before  been  able  to 
produce. 

44  Yeh  damn  devils  1  Wotter  yeh  done  to 
'er?  Oh,  Gawd,  if  I'd  a-got " 

The  Chink  turned  about  and  shuffled 
amiably  to  the  door.  Over  his  shoulder  he 
looked  at  Perce  and  made  a  leering  remark, 
accompanied  by  a  licking  of  the  lips.  They 
nodded  heads  together. 

Curious  noises  came  from  the  chair  at  the 
fire ;  noises  like  the  low  sucking  of  a  wolf. 
The  old  man's  jaw  had  fallen  fully  open  and 
disclosed  yellow  teeth.  His  head  rolled  no 
longer  ;  it  moved  in  jerks,  which  grew  shorter 
and  shorter. 

"  My — little — gel  .  .  ."  snarled  the  lips. 
"  O  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  'elp  a  man  1  " 

44  Blasted  o'  fool,"  said  Perce  explanatorily. 
44  Alwis  'aving  chats  wiv  Gawd  about  some- 
thing." He  took  another  Woodbine,  lit  it, 

310 


Old  Joe 

and  strove  to  appear  casual.  His  lips  were 
white  and  his  grubby  hand  shook. 

A  violent  tremor  spread  along  the  flabby 
body  of  Old  Joe.  His  head  was  motionless 
and  was  turned  towards  the  table.  Some- 
thing seemed  to  be  calling  him  in  that  direc- 
tion ;  and,  as  they  nodded  and  whispered, 
suddenly  the  Chink,  looking  across  Perec's 
shoulder,  gave  a  sharp  cry  and  his  immobile 
face  was  lit  with  horror. 

"  Dekko  1  " 

Perce  obeyed  sharply.  And  he  saw  the 
giant  corpse  standing  on  its  feet,  towering 
above  him,  one  huge  arm  stretched  to  his 
own  white  gills,  the  other,  in  the  joy  of 
returned  strength,  clutching  the  long,  lean 
knife  from  the  supper-table. 


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